Marigold and the Historian
by Sincerely Marigold
Summary: The first installment in a series of short stories involving the characters from Waterford, South Carolina first introduced in "A Long and Lonely Mile." It focuses on Marigold Casey, John Andre and the Martin Family, among others.
1. Chapter 1

_In which 25 year old Marigold Casey comes home from college, suffers an identity crisis and sees Henry Andreson (John Andre) for the first time at Charleston International Airport._

 **Marigold and the Historian**

 **Part One**

 _All the scenes that we'll replay,_

 _Before we scattered in the breeze._

 _They say you can't go home again,_

 _I hear a quiet voice begin_

 _Must be Carolina calling me…_

-Mipso

Flying from Portland to Charleston was always a bittersweet endeavor. I formed a strange kinship with both airports throughout my college years, collecting their juxtapositions like mile markers. If memories were souvenirs, I had three bags full. I had my departure time preference set to default with an hour's difference during Daylight Savings. I made it a point to book a window seat in advance on the left side of the aircraft, if only to gain that coveted view of the sunrise shining orange on Mt. Hood and the Three Sisters. Stumptown's hazelnut macchiato would keep me buzzed and happy until we reached the flyover states of the American Midwest. There, I would shuffle through my carryon and find the fresh espresso beans that I had purchased before boarding, inhale through the bag's aroma vent and hear the mountains calling from over the rumble of the jet engines and the decisively Southern overtones of my bottomless George Thorogood playlist.

I am not a Portlander, not really. I am a South Carolinian through and through. But my time at Portland State had shaped me, molded me into something that I could not lay any claim to before. I had been changed by the time that I spent, trudging through the rain, backdropped by the organic, dark green landscape and absorbing the crystalline breaths of the high mountain pines, spiked with diesel fuel and clouds of marijuana smoke from the potheads who reclined and laughed in the alleyways. There was no relaxing in the dorm room. After class, I would hop on the TriMet and head North to the Pearl District where the bookshops and cafes welcomed me like an old friend. I would stay there long past nightfall and only head back when the dubstep clubs pulsated into life and bled through the bookstore's clapboard walls.

Southern hospitality and Northwestern hospitality have their differences and their similarities. What I found in Portland reminded me faintly of what I could find in Waterford: characters of varying degrees of zaniness, neighborhood parks and markets, even the cushiony armchairs at Coffee n' San-tea would transport me back to Portland on an overcast day and vice-versa. The greatest difference of all, however, was that Waterford was home. As a dog only has one master, a person only has one home and this fact remained despite my efforts to label both cities thusly. Portland was a break from reality and with my bachelor's degree was in my hands, I knew that this flight would be my final crossing.

Something dissipated as the plane started its descent into Charleston. I put the espresso beans away and tied my red flannel, a faint nod to grunge life, around my waist. It was rainy and just below 60 degrees that morning at PDX and in the low 80's at CHS, according to the pilot, anyway. As I'm sure you know, their forecasts are rarely inaccurate. The sun was getting ready to set and even from above, I caught sight of what I loved best about my home. No place on earth does "golden hour" quite like South Carolina. Everything from the rolling, inland hills to the water in the bay that appeared smooth and mirror-like from above, was perfectly aglow.

Momentarily, just momentarily, I forgot what I was going home to. Mountains of paperwork that I had abandoned to return to school, the sight of the vacant foreclosed museum off of Main that I had grown up inside, the cemetery where every Casey was buried since the end of the 18th century and that now, despite my relentless avoidance of the subject, was where I would find my mother and father. I wanted to visit their graves, if only to make amends and thank them for the schoolhouse, the inheritance of which they had promised me in their will.

The golden land below my feet barreled nearer and nearer with every passing second. My family's history was there. My personal history, too. Every milestone, every birthday candle, every friend that I had ever made and kept was recorded in a tiny snippet of years in the great state's centurial chronology. I had only a faint idea of what was to come, job applications, interviews and above all, the restoration of the Casey Schoolhouse. Our plot in the graveyard of a sizeable proportion aside, that was my family's mark on Waterford, South Carolina, and a commonly overlooked relic of the old world. Now, it was my own, to guard, cherish and transform from a spider-infested shack to what it was in the days of the American Revolution.

I needed that time away from home, to grow comfortable in my own skin, to decide what it was I truly wanted to do before assuming the responsibility of this inheritance. Keeping my mind on the schoolhouse instead of my last visit to Waterford, for my parents' funeral, was the push that I needed to disembark. The cabin door opened, and I was taken aback by the blast of steamy air from the outside. It smelled like home. Like Portland, I found notes of nature and industry wafting through the breeze. But there were differences, differences that my sensory memory could only discover after ping-ponging back and forth for holidays, intersessions and that single, fateful family emergency that had left me an orphan.

CHS was bigger than PDX and oddly enough, more cramped; with the cornfed, sunburned bunch, all grinning from ear to ear. The small tattooed crowd that had crossed the country with me dispersed, carrying their hemp blend rucksacks and empty Stumptown cups. My feet were on the ground, I had landed and yet, I remained airborne. Floating above the masses, not belonging to any clique or classification. There was a single gulp of macchiato left in my cup, it had crossed the country with me and turned tepid over the hours of its elongated life. I sloshed it around, contemplating taking a sip. Instead, I found the lady's room and trashed it and, after glancing unhappily at my fatigued face, I unwrapped the flannel shirt from around my waist and threw it in the basket with the cup.

This ceremony meant more to me in that moment than it did in the long run. I could toss my flannels, donate my combat boots, abandon my Pendleton Wools and Gore Tex Raingear, but a part of me, the part that I had always believed to be pure Waterford underwent an education in Portland, just like my mind had in school. Now, at 25, orphaned and culturally torn, I was the truest version of Marigold that I had ever been. As I made for the luggage carousel, where I would wait for some godforsaken stretch of time, for my school bus yellow duffel to appear amidst the sea of black, professional roller bags, I continued to push Portland from my mind.

Every gate at CHS had their own story. Although there was no life in which I could have ever flown out of all of them, I did visit them all. Giselle, my dearest friend and I, were flying from Charleston to New York to visit the Broadway district with the rest of the theatre club during our junior year of high school. We covered every gate during our three-hour flight delay and, for no other reason than to keep entertained, we would pretend to be traveling to every gate's respective destination. Most of our fun was spent at the international gates, Paris and London, especially. At least until the other travelers realized that our accents were fraudulent, and the staff caught on to what we were doing, checked our tickets and sent us back to our teacher.

Giselle would be there, without fail, on the other side of security. She would make my time at the carousel worth-while. I grinned at the thought of seeing her with a fist full of balloons that did not match the occasion (last summer, she met me at security with two mylars, one read "Over the Hill" and the other was shaped like a giant piece of broccoli complete with a smiling face and rosy cheeks- just to give you an idea of the kind of goofy randomness that we are dealing with here). Of course, she would also bring a large macchiato from Coffee n' San-tea with more hazelnut syrup in it than the health nuts at Stumtown would ever dream to add.

That was home. My best friend, my brother and the lovable antics that they pulled. If anything would bring me through those months of uncertainty, of finding a job, a place to sleep other than Giselle's cheetah print futon, and ultimately balance and footing in Waterford after having the ground pulled out from below my feet when the gas leak took my parents away last Halloween- it would be them. At least, that was what I had convinced myself to believe. But something else happened that day at CHS, when my mind was weary and raw, and I was traipsing the line between childhood and adulthood, stability and instability.

It happened on the way to the baggage claim, while walking past a gate that was pouring out arrivals from New York. We did not speak, we would neither speak nor see one another again for nearly a month, until he appeared as if by magic at Giselle's birthday party roast. Our eyes met for only a moment before he articulated a gentle "pardon me" and was once again consumed by the hungry, impatient mob of travelers. He carried himself differently from any man I had ever seen, statuesque and tall, but not the least bit rigid. I tried to place him, to understand what his grace, his accent, and the charming grin that he extended me might imply. This was what I wagered- that he was a regal portrait come to life, a fantasy that my mind had conjured up after reading too much Jane Austen, a man from another place and time. All of these ideas were foolish, of course, and I allowed him to be what he was- a man who was just as misplaced, just as tired and homesick as I, who was briefly possessed by the ghost of chivalry.


	2. Chapter 2

**Marigold and the Historian**

 **Part Two**

 _In which Giselle and Marigold discuss an uncomfortable topic, Tommy Martin talks about kazoos, and Marigold and Henry meet one another formally._

Living with Giselle required a little bit of technique and a whole hell of a lot of patience. If you were to count all the years that we spent sneaking out and returning home before dawn and combine them with the countless sleepovers and camping trips that our parents had actually approved of, enough years would accumulate to qualify us as siblings. I could predict each incoming wave of eccentrics like a chief meteorologist. I could tell whether she was crying for attention, slap happy with exhaustion or about to go on an hour-long rant about discount yarn or what happened last Saturday on A Prairie Home Companion. Perhaps even before Giselle, herself could form those impending tangents.

Why, I even knew the exact duration of time that she took in the bathroom taming her only somewhat "naturally curly hair" and about every secret salon visit to get a semi-perm. This happened every four months and was, more or less, a back-alley transaction. She would tie on a headscarf, sneak into the salon through the back door and have the procedure done in the waxing room, so that nobody else would see. I would occasionally have the pleasure of going to the ATM and driving the getaway car, rendering Giselle, myself and her hair stylist the only people in Waterford who knew that her hair required additional work to get its famous bounce and shine.

I could handle all of this and so much more. Giselle could handle me, too. She deciphered what was happening the very instant that we embraced at the airport and was anything but afraid to make light of my severance from Portland. She even trilled a joyful "put a hummingbird on it" as she slapped the passenger seat in her minivan, inviting me to join her. I didn't mind such jargon. She teased me about the espresso beans, praised the fact that I still wore deodorant, criticized how I had infused said deodorant with one drop patchouli/one drop sandalwood and from there, she tiptoed into uncomfortable territory.

"I'm gonna need to fatten you up, girlfriend!" She reached for my wrist as I connected my phone to the auxiliary cord. "Those arms of yours look even noodlier than they did the last time that I saw you!"

"Noodlier, Zippy? Is that even a word?" Smugness was my only defense in this situation. She had gone straight for the jugular and I knew that there would be no living with her until we got past this hurdle.

"I've seen precooked pieces of angel hair pasta that were bulkier than _all_ of your appendages combined!" Giselle raved, "Please tell me that you've had something other than coffee today."

I sunk down in my seat and looked at the landscape. It was still golden, with splotches of dusky blue bleeding through the sunset like a time lapsed watercolor painting that covered both sky and earth. "I had peanuts."

Giselle wrinkled her nose and merged onto the interstate. "You know why they call them peanuts, right? It goes back to the days of old when people said things like, "My Pa is making peanuts working for that bank!" or "Do you know how much money teachers make on an annual basis- peanuts! You follow?"

"Yes, yes," I quietly fantasized about opening my door, rolling across the road and into the ravine, "peanuts mean 'nothing'. Even though they have enough sodium in them to give a small child a stroke."

Her nose and mouth twisted sideways again, an indication of deep thought, "You haven't gone all veggin' on me, have you?"

"Veggin'?"

"You know, veggin'. It's all the rage in those hip Northwestern cities. Where everything is plant-based-this and tofu-that, soybeans ahoy and kale all the way?!"

I halted my hunt through the embarrassingly large collection of swing albums in my music library and laughed. "Oh, vegan! No."

"That's good. Because Frenchie's is having a 'bring your bestie, get a free burger' special tonight and you are my bestie and are in serious need of putting some meat on your bones."

She meant well, of course. In case you are wondering, I did have the stupid hamburger and I did keep it down. If there was a downside to living with Giselle, a real downside, it would be how conscious she remained of my challenging relationship with food. It was on again, off again, touch and go, and so complex that I refused to define it. All that I knew was that what began as body image anxiety in my early teenage years, turned dangerously habitual as I neared adulthood. Giselle, on the other hand, worked from a very specific definition for what it was. She was the anxious one now, I merely lived with a scale around my waist and a nameless demon on my back. Lived. As though it was the most natural thing in the world.

I only bring it up because her concern would come to blatantly contrast with his reaction. He was not indifferent in the slightest. Misinformed, perhaps? Confused, certainly. His frustration towards me and why I was the way I was would undermine the life that Henry and I made. This was among other incompatibilities, of course. It was no coincidence that the tension between Giselle and I over the matter was present on the night that we had our first real conversation.

She caught me in the lady's room at Coffee n' San-tea, ill and dizzy as ever. This was at a very definitive time in my life where the very smell of food made me nauseated. There were even times when the friendly aroma of coffee beans had the same effect. It was her birthday and all that I could do was cry because I felt like such a burden. She was kind to me and less judgmental than she had been over the few weeks that we had spent living in the same space. We sat in our favorite armchairs and I kept my head on her shoulder, trembling and waiting for my strength to return. The first fifteen minutes or so after purging were always the worst. This was another pattern that Giselle understood.

"Jake is looking over here," she warned, moving a card table between us and breaking apart the pieces of a puzzle that a customer had solved earlier that day. Coffee n' San-tea was always famous for its board games and related frivolities. "I can't keep covering for you, Mare. And I can't-" Someone tapped on my shoulder. Before I turned to see who was there, I thanked them for relieving me of the discomfort. Giselle gave a distressful, "Oh, man!" And hummed a tune that I just barely recognized as the theme music that plays every time The Geek comes on screen in the movie, _Sixteen Candles_.

"Marigold Casey," Tommy Martin lisped, sounding just about as suave as a borderline pubescent boy possibly can. He grinned at me, flashing a row of shiny braces that were not present the last time that I had seen him (and that made Giselle's musical prelude fit the situation beautifully). "You'd better be sticking around here for good this time. I love the other ladies, but they are _not_ of your caliber." I traced his line of vision to where Tristan Stone was huddled over a table on the outside patio. The chances of Tommy making any sort of overture to Tristan or any of the other girls in Waterford without either peeing his pants or being tragically humiliated were miniscule at best.

He liked me because I was nice to him and condoned his strangeness when no one else would. Somewhere down the line, I suspected that he misinterpreted my kindness as flirting. Maintaining a distance was the best that I could do, but that was easier said than done. He came from one of the largest families in town. Come to think of it, just about every other business in Waterford was owned by a Martin. Coffee n' San-tea, included. "I have a little somethin'-somethin' for you," Tommy crooned. As he reached into his jacket pocket, several fistfuls of freshly made spitballs rolled out. Then a slingshot, a straw and one of those bouncy rainbow balls that can be found at a quarter machine near you.

"Surely you mean Giselle," I interjected as a miniature nerf gun joined the spitballs on the floor, "it is her birthday, after all." A smile was the best that I could give him. I still felt lightheaded, but Tommy did not see that. He was blinded by his nerves.

"Giselle doesn't like…" he reached deeper into his pocket, pulling out a tangle of yo-yo strings and several fuzz-covered sticky hands (another quarter machine specialty).

"Boy, you could find the portal to Narnia in there, couldn't you?" I said, gently. I was about to help the poor kid in his hunt when his face lit up. He had found it, whatever it was.

"Close your eyes and hold out your hanny!" I glanced over at Giselle. It was up to her to wedge him away if he tried any funny business. I followed his instructions exactly and he plopped not one, but two gifts in my hand. "We learned how to make those in art class!" He told me, bursting with pride. "Can you believe how cool our teacher is? We got to make our own kazoos!"

"Wow," I moved the metal object into a beam of light. It was actually very impressive. I could see where he had hammered the pieces together and the lines that he had painted by hand. "I can't accept this, Tommy. You're the kazoo master!"

"I was. Until…" he lowered his head and pointed to his braces. "It's time for me to retire and pass along the craft to someone that I trust and who won't let me down. I choose you, Pikachu. Yes, I do. Use it well. The kazoo is a truly beautiful instrument."

Believe it or not, this wasn't even his most peculiar statement of his affection for me. Nor was it the first time that he tried to give me a kazoo. He had invited me, on several occasions, to join a small kazoo orchestra that he was trying to put together and even asked me to sign a petition to make it an official instrument in his school's band. I stood up and gave him a two-second long side-hug. "You're a sweet kid, you know that? Now what is, oh god." The second gift was even funnier than the first. I covered my mouth, but a laugh escaped, regardless. " _Hooked on Yodeling: The Very Best of Kerry Christensen._ Uhm… why?"

"Now that my orthodontist has robbed me of my dream of becoming a kazoo artist, I'm considering taking up yodeling! Listen to the track called 'The Chicken Yodel'. It will change your entire outlook on life, Marigold Casey."

Giselle and I exchanged looks and I thanked Tommy with yet another awkward hug. The festivities, namely a roast for Giselle, were about to begin and Tommy skipped off to raise hell in the front row of kitchen chairs that had been placed around a very unstable looking plywood platform. I had prepared a poem, but the two of us stuck to the back of the room for most of the evening. Most of the insults that were flung at Giselle targeted her recent brush with the law. To make a long story short, she systematically stole craft sticks from the school that she was teaching art classes at. My poem only touched on the scandal.

She was called to mingle with a teacher friend and I remained in my armchair. Everybody was having cake and I had convinced Tess, the owner of the café, that I only required a glass of ice water. Giselle, yet again, could read me like a book, even from across the room. She looked concerned, but her stance and stride told me that she was about to raise hell either to me or to my brother. Catching her best friend in the process of throwing up her lunch earlier and refusing any sort of sustenance for the rest of the day was cause for concern. Reaching out for help was more than justified.

We were watching one another so intensely, wondering what the other might do when a familiar stranger passed between us. He looked at Giselle, then at me with a faint air of familiarity and crossed to where she stood. I had no idea what he had said to her, but she didn't seem to like it. Her hand molded into a fist and as instantaneously as a flash of lightning, she struck the poor fellow across the nose and continued her route through the crowd to where my brother stood.

Normally, I would have intervened and spent my time coming up with some sort of excuse for why I was refusing food. I would have convinced Jake that I was under the weather or stressed about the interview that I had scheduled with Waterford High's own Principal Ballard regarding the future of the Casey Schoolhouse. I had options. But gaining a doubletake at that man, that man that I had sworn I'd seen before, with his tweed jacket, cowlicked hair and perfect posture- it was to him that my attention swayed.

"What seems to be the trouble, Sir?" I asked, holding my arms across my chest, defensively. "You must have done something to set Zippy off like that!" His body was bent slightly at the waist, but he did not hunch. He was otherwise straight as a pin.

"I complimented her on her jacket," he gurgled. Bubbles of blood popped up between his fingers. "And she broke my damned nose!"

That voice, rich with intellect and wit, was undeniably British and without a doubt, belonged to the man who had spoken no more than two words to me at CHS and left a deep impression on my heart. "Would you like a handkerchief?" I asked, to no avail. He removed one from his breast pocket right as the offer was made. "A glass of water? A slice of cake?" His eyebrow arched, and I was smitten. "A fleet of comfort dogs?"

"Sorry?" The hanky was immediately soiled. His eyes dropped to the floor and he gasped upon the realization that he was bleeding all over my flats and tights. "Good gracious, Miss! I am so terribly sorry!" I took him by the hand, unshaken by the blood and showed him where the restroom was. Despite the goriness of this fiasco, our location went unnoticed by Jake and Giselle. Being with him was, for the time being, the perfect means of escape. "You really don't have to do all of this for me," he insisted as I dabbed at his unbroken albeit badly beaten nose. "Miss?"

"Marigold," I wasn't sure if he was asking for my name, but I was willing to give it to him, nonetheless. "My name is Marigold."

"Marigold," his blue eyes glistened from over the top of the wadded paper towels. "It suits you." Enchantment and perhaps even a hint of surprise took over his handsome features. "Marigold. A little yellow flower. My, how lovely…"


	3. Chapter 3

**Marigold and the Historian**

 **Part Three**

It was the forth consecutive night at my new job and I could not for the life of me get Henry Anderson off of my mind. He was renting a single room in the apartment complex across the street. I could see part of the building from the classroom that I was teaching night school in. During a lesson on structuring five-paragraph essays, I very nearly wrote his name on the whiteboard in the place of the word "heading". Thankfully, most of my students had their laptops out and while they were supposed to be taking notes, I had my suspicions that at least half of the class had tabs open of a more recreational sort. I erased the damp line of dayglo Expo ink with the corner of hand, avoiding the sleeve of my new dress at all costs, and started the word anew.

"The heading goes at the top of the page. Please take note that I will dock points for papers that are titled thusly: 'Assignment 1', 'Short Paper Number 3", you get my point. Titles matter to readers just as much as content. They should encapsulate what you are trying to say in a brief and concise way. They are symbolic, poetic, condensed haikus-" I caught a hand being raised in my periphery and lost my train of thought. Teaching—good teaching, as I would learn, required a levelheadedness that I had yet to gain. "Guys! We will pause for questions at the end of class, remember?" I cursed, trying to retrieve the diminishing ember of inspiration and turned, sheepishly wiping the perspiration from my forehead. "Where was I?"

The room, an even split of middle aged clerks and pregnant high school graduates, stared daggers at me. They must have grasped the hypocrisy of "no questions unless I'm the one asking" before I had the opportunity to. I knew how to do this. I knew how to juggle and keep my students engaged. I had come out on top in every education course that I took in Portland and furthermore, had landed this gig because of the stellar recommendations from my professors. All six of them. So, what the hell had happened to me? I was bombing, nose diving, spiraling headfirst into a jagged mountain range in slow motion. The class wouldn't let out for another 45 excruciating minutes. I had to find a way to get out of my head and into the moment. Somehow.

"Mizz… uh… Mrs… Cassette?" One of my more vocal students, an older, bearded man in a navy blue Wal-Mart uniform grumbled. It did not help matters that he was seated at the table nearest the window that framed Henry's apartment building.

"Casey," I corrected him. He didn't seem to like this, so I softened up. _Get to know your students,_ I reminded myself. _Learn their names and converse with them instead of regurgitating information in their faces like you have been all evening._ "Sorry. My Y's look like T's and my R's look like V's. What a pretty rhyme!" Silence. "What is your name?" Had I been in my right mind, I would have heard that his name was 'Harvey' and that he was a diabetic who needed to leave the room and find a vending machine before completely blacking out. "Henry," a smile that I am entirely sure was both dazed and idiotic formed on my face, "let's take a poll!" I skip-scrambled to the podium, fired up my computer and opened a poll generator, "Would you prefer," I said aloud as I typed in the question and options, "to continue learning about five paragraph essays or have a fun, impromptu activity in which you decipher one another's penmanship? Clickers out and bombs away! Remember, this is a democratic classroom!"

Nobody was voting. Those who weren't surfing the web were closing their laptops and preparing to leave. The poor gentleman named Harvey whipped out his wallet and left the room without giving me a second look. My face was burning with embarrassment and I'm sure my ears were a glaring fire engine red. The milder the embarrassment, the more likely I was to flush in places that a normal person would, but when humiliation was positively eating away at my psyche, my ears would give me away. Oh, the pleasures of being a human mood ring! Thankfully, nobody seemed to care. One student walked out, the others followed suit, all of them were chattering amongst themselves about wasted money. I was left alone in the empty room, stunned.

I remained calm for about three minutes; reassuring myself that everyone bombs at the beginning of their career and had I not been so overzealous about jumping headfirst into the industry, I would have been able to work at Frenchie's or Coffee n' San-tea for a few more months and do more training. Be it tutoring or volunteering, there were options out there that would sharpen me into the helpful, authoritative educator that I was capable of becoming. Those calming words only worked for so long. By the time that I was packed up and heading down the hallway, every tiny detail that I had gotten wrong leading up to the point where my students had actually jumped ship swarmed into my head. My temples started pounding, the skin beneath my sweater became coated in a cold sweat and I headed for the lady's room to cry- or worse.

I retreated into a corner stall and pulled out my cellphone, intent on calling Giselle. The screen lit up, the address book was found, and my emotions churned violently as I contemplated on what words to say, what questions to ask. My body told me that tears could wait. It needed to cough, it needed to choke, it needed to leave me with my head cradled in my shaking hands above the toilet bowl. Another purge. Another false sense of renewal. This was how I coped with estrangement, this was how I kept myself composed, it was the only practice in my life that was truly cleansing. I kept a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste in my bag, that was how expectant I was towards these episodes. Minty fresh, empty, wobbly and "better", somehow, I exited the building and saw my next escape.

It was stupid, of course. Ridiculously stupid. I only knew that he lived there because we bumped into one another after class two days prior. He was carrying an armful of vinyl and I had helped him carry it across the lawn and up the stairs. His apartment was dark, cool and filled with the enticing smell of old leather-bound books. My eyes didn't wander as much as they yearned to. I placed the vinyl by his record player, accepted the brief but darling embrace that he initiated and left with my heart thumping in my ears. This time, it would be different. This time, I would stay. There was a gas station several buildings down that was bustling with the community college's night school crowd. Commuters, mostly from Pembroke and the rural areas beyond. I was bound to see at least two of my students inside but decided to chance it, anyway.

The overhead bell dinged its tinny fanfare as I stepped inside. It was an older station with a wobbly, glass front door, flickering internal and external lights and the reek of cheap cappuccino that had grown in mats like bacteria through the years. Nausea flared up inside of me and I detoured to the single restroom in the back. Thankfully, it was empty, but that was its only benefit. My sense of smell had doubled and everything about the uncleaned bathroom hit me in a second wave of seasickness. There was nothing left inside of me to exhume, just a painful episode of dry heaving that left my throat raw and my eyes watery. I walked over to the sink, cupped my hands over my mouth and inhaled the leftover smell of Expo marker for an elongated second. Going home and going to bed (or to be more specific, futon) was my best option, but I did not take it.

I left the bathroom, strode down the alcohol aisle with the upmost composure and settled on the prettiest bottle of Riesling that I could find. The ornate label and the fact that I had picked up a bottle in the first place would hopefully distract from it not being red. White wine, as I saw it, was fresh, cool, light and somehow less caloric than my other options. I discarded the brown paper bag that they had given me at the register out of the fear that it looked tacky, slipped the bottle and receipt into my tote and proceeded to the apartment complex. I even managed to go unnoticed by Tommy Martin who was far too preoccupied with feeding quarters to the bouncy ball machine to see me. I would later learn that it was for a prank that involved dumping a large box of said bouncy balls across the staircase at his school during passing period. Maybe I didn't want to be a teacher, after all!

I was perfectly calm and collected until my finger let off on the buzzer. When the microphone crackled and Henry's voice bled through, all of my anxiety returned.

"Good evening?" That voice. It was both sophisticated and seductive. I wished that it was visible, tangible just long enough for me to hold and kiss each wave of glorious sound. "Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Uh, yes. Yes! Hi, Henry. It's Miss Cas- uh, Marigold! Marigold Casey!" I heard a second crackle, but no response. The urge to state my case pushed me into a place that was neither bravery nor panic, but sheer stupidity. "I have come with a bottle of fine wine and the intention of making violent love to you!" It is worth noting that my usual voice disappeared and the stage voice that landed me roles in community and college theatre productions as vain, neurotic 1940's housewives and Hollywood starlets took over.

"Marigold, yes," if he was uncomfortable or interested in my proposition, it did not show, "do come up. I am in 2B."

I giggled with nervous delight. "2B or not 2B?!"

"Sorry?"

"That is the… question. Never mind! I'll be there in a jiffy!" Whether or not my stomach had leveled out remained a mystery to me. I was numb from head to toe, buzzing with anticipation for what might happen next. My previous boyfriend, Todd, who left Portland State during his junior year, put our relationship on hold and allowed it to deteriorate in midair. More importantly, he had warned me about how downright unappealing my lack of impulsiveness was. Up to this point, losing my virginity to him in a tent in the Oregon woods was the nearest to impulsivity that I had ventured. That was the great scandal, the highest point in my romantic life before sex became nothing more than a blip of ecstasy shrouded in motions that grew routine, robotic and dull. Having a vague understanding of what Todd liked did not mean that I knew what Henry would like. Impulsiveness was my best guess.

When he opened the door, he didn't appear startled or nervous at all. A book, antiqued and beautiful was perched in his hand. "You'll have to forgive me, Marigold," he started, I couldn't hear a thing through that blasted intercom. It is a miracle that I caught your name! How can I help you?"

My hand was in my tote bag, fingers tightening around the neck of the wine bottle like a noose. He hadn't heard me. I should have been relieved, the numbness should have vanished, but it did not. "I'm-" I started.

"Marigold?" His voice grew distant and vague, crackly like it had been through the speaker out front. "Are you unwell?"

The image of Henry's fair, chiseled face became distorted and the world around us both felt like and sounded as though it were submerged in a deep pool ice water. My knees gave out as I tried to step towards him. The pressure of failing my students, abusing my body and embarrassing myself acted as a weight. He opened his arms to me, breaking my fall. It should have been romantic, but it was not. I should have felt some relief being so close to him, my body should have warmed and melted into that fragrant, muscular chest, but no. I ached, I trembled, I cried and before the world around me turned to blackness, I mumbled, "I need help."


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

Why, certainly! I had contemplated what it might be like to wake up in Henry Anderson's bed. I could hear him through the walls, flipping pages and using what sounded like an authentic feather pen and inkwell to take notes on a scratchy piece of parchment. Those noises mingled with the sweet aroma of his books, candlewax and a hint of cologne that one could not find samples for in an average catalogue or shopping mall. It was a spicy fragrance, natural and warm with notes of bourbon and cedarwood. I tore it apart with each inhale, parsing it like a complex source for a college essay. I wondered what it would be like to grow so accustomed to these smells that they would become the smells of home. I wondered how my spirit would react to this medley, this sensory orchestration of everything that was Henry Anderson if I took it in with every breath, every gasp for air leading up to... well. Indeed, he was seducing me with nothing more than his presence, his beautiful existence.

I remained there for a while longer, breathing and thinking. Immorally, immodestly. He was liable to send me home if he knew that I was awake, correct? Any other man, interested in me or not, would have phoned for an ambulance and had me whisked away to the cold, uncaring emergency room downtown where I would play the role of another name and number. I wondered what his choice to keep me there implied. He had spared me the discomfort of being hooked up to yet another saline drip, of having to prepare for another psychoanalysis, and the awkwardly quiet car ride home with Giselle. Had he personally diagnosed me for the mess that I was? Did he understand how deeply I hated the song and dance with paramedics and loved ones alike following a blackout? My mind, somehow, convinced me that he was on my side and I spent ten blissful minutes, dozing and feeling understood. Then the intercom popped on.

"Delivery for Henry Anderson," the static-riddled voice said, "you were the crazy dude who ordered everything on the menu, right?"

"Ah! Yes, yes! That was me," he responded, cheerfully. "I'll gladly assist you if you need help carrying everything."

The young man accepted this offer. Henry rose and left, closing the door behind him. I could hear every one of his movements for several seconds until he reached the furthest point of the hallway. An unshakable urge took over. I wanted to see what he had been working on- what had been so sacred to him that he eschewed the luxury of typing it up on a PC. Calligraphy was my first guess, but one look at the mountain of papers on his nightstand hinted otherwise. It was broken into three carefully piled stacks, two of which contained an even mix of the printer/notebook paper origin. Modern. The third was exclusively parchment paper, flourished with ink and signed with Henry's name. I examined the others, split between two authors: Emily Ballard-Tarleton and Arthur Tarleton, both of whom were writing from Columbia University in New York.

Emily's maiden name, Ballard, meant the most to me and so, that pile held my attention for the two quiet minutes that Henry had given me, alone in his private space. I wagered immediately and correctly that Emily was related to David Ballard, principal of Waterford High, and the bane of my existence, I might add. Her last contact with Henry was over a month prior and the envelope was addressed to his hotel room in the Fairfield Inn at Charleston Airport. The first paragraph was all that I was able to see before Henry's approaching voice forced me back into bed:

 _Hen,_

 _I don't know what that ignoramus fool said to push you out of your ivory tower in Columbia. Do you know that I had to break into his office to find your address? Divorces are never easy and although Art and I never had children, this is the closest to a custody battle that I will ever venture. I care for you. You are just as much my responsibility as you are his and he is doing a piss poor job of keeping you in check. Charleston? Honestly? I suppose that is what happens when you combine the minds of a fraudulent history professor (I mean you no offence, honestly) with a crackpot (I mean all of the offence in the world to Arthur, honestly). You are an adult, when all is said and done. The five years that you spent under our watch has been life-altering for me. I can't believe how beautifully you have adapted into a respectable, high functioning modern gentleman._

As I listened to the crumpling of bags, paper and plastic alike, the friendly farewell (and apparently, gracious tip) from Henry to the delivery boy, my mind contorted and turned like a rubix cube. _What the hell did I just read?_ I wondered, turning over on the pillow and growing distracted with how glorious it smelled. He didn't belong here, that much I understood. It sounded to me like he had intermingled with a strange bunch in New York and had undergone a transformation from who he was before. But who was he before he "became" the suave, intellectual Henry Anderson that I knew? A traveler, perhaps. Culture-shocked and alone in the largest and most baffling city in America. But would that cause such entitlement, such ownership from his two friends? Well, I knew nothing of Tartletons, but having known several Ballards, I did understand them to be controlling, persuasive creatures. It was a strange letter, to be sure. Stranger even than Giselle's weekly candy grams that she mailed to my Portland dorm. I believed that Henry was a treasure, someone who I would care about and hate being parted from and that is why I decided to forget what I had read.

"Miss Casey," he knocked softly. I rolled to my side and told him to come in. He remained where he was, standing politely beneath the doorframe. "I did not know what your preferences were, so I ordered one of everything from the Jade Garden."

After curling upright, I patted down my hair. "That was very sweet of you. But I had a huge lunch before my class," I lied.

"Miss Casey," he said, yet again. His eyes were filled heavily with concern and perhaps even confusion. "You might not believe this, but I possess the rare ability to read people. Shaking with nervousness, excitement, as a reaction to the cold and, in your case, with hunger, may appear similar to the untrained eye, but-"

"-you didn't call the paramedics," I started to shake again. This time, it was more nerves than hunger. Perhaps Henry spotted and understood that, too. "Thank you."

"Will you at least try something? I could start you off with a glass of water? A bit of the wine that you had in your tote?" He chuckled at my reddening cheeks and ears.

I would use the same method on him as I did with Giselle. Eat something out of politeness now and "detoxify" myself later. "Wine and a spring roll," I requested with shyness, "please." He brought our plates to the bed, along with two stemmed glassed filled with wine. My heart was sounding noisily behind my ribs like a tiger in a cage. I didn't want to eat in front of him. It seemed a disgusting, savage act. "Cheers," I muttered, sipping as daintily as I could with a wobbling hand.

"To your good health," Henry replied. He didn't mean to sound ironic and yet, he did. "Do you remember what you told me before you blacked out?" Those eyes, those extraordinary blue eyes watched me as I took my second, third and fourth sip in silence. "Marigold? I must know what is wrong before I can help you."

Annoyance was my initial reaction. Was he one of those people who wanted the satisfaction of hearing the word? That single, stupid, clinical-sounding name that supposedly encompassed the depravation, the cancelled meetings, the broken friendships and hearts that it left in its wake? I would not give it to him or anyone else. "I miss Portland," I looked at him, straight and focused, knowing that liars had wandering eyes. It was the truth within the lie, however, that kept my gaze steady. He seemed a genuine, trustworthy man despite the cloud of mystery that surrounded him. "I miss Waterford," my chest began to swell with emotion. One by one, I plucked each thought from my soul and laid them bare in front of us both for examination. "I miss what Waterford used to be. When my parents were still here. When the museum was all that mattered to my family and the schoolhouse was just a pretty trinket on the back shelf. All that I ever wanted to do was restore it. Now that it's in my hands, I don't know what to do with the responsibility. It should be easy… holding down my job, saving up, recalling each detail that my father told me about how the Old Hardwick House became the Waterford Museum, applying that knowledge to restoring the schoolhouse, navigating the bullshit that the schoolboard and Principal Ballard-" I stopped myself. The edges around his eyes wrinkled endearingly as he grinned. This was our common ground, our pivoting point. "You know the bastard?"

"I know the bastard's twin sister," Henry chuckled. "We've had coffee once or twice. One might say the Ballard Family and my own go back for several generations!" Either it was the wine or the levity of being so close to placing this charming stranger within the geography and chronology of my own hometown, but I felt a weight lifting from my shoulders. He could tell. He read me like a book. "You are concerned for the schoolhouse because it is on the same property as Dave Ballard's high school?"

I sloshed my wine around, creating a tiny, golden cyclone in my palm. "You might not know this about me, Henry, but I've had a vision for that building from the day that my father told me about Annabelle Casey. She was a storyteller, just like me. She loved theatre and poetry and she used that space to pass the tradition along. During a time when women had little say in the way that the world around them fit together and functioned, no less. That is what I want for the schoolhouse and what I want to do for the rest of my life. I want to spread the gift of storytelling to young adults, who have since forgotten its power and are at that awkward, lonely time in their lives when no one else will listen. They need to find their voices. They are the ones who need stories the most." I had to stop. I knew that if I kept talking, I would tell him about high school and the origin of my illness.

"You have told Ballard this?"

"Not in so many words," I laughed, "he called me after my parents died… must have heard one of the Martins gossiping about my inheritance in the café. He asked me to name my price. Waterford High has been trying to turn it into a holding space for sports and band equipment for as long as I've been alive!"

He shifted into deep thought. For several minutes, we sat, memorizing the collection of bubbles and glints of lamplight on the surface of our wine glasses. He would look over at me from time to time but would not return my smile. Finally, he stood and without saying so much as a single word, crossed into the living room, lifted the handle of the rotary phone on his desk and dialed.

"Dave, hello," I heard him say, "… I am quite well, thank you. And yourself?... Splendid!... Are you free for coffee again this week?... No, Emily has nothing to do with this arrangement, but it is important…" He continued, traipsing around the heart of the matter, but not once revealing his intentions. Meanwhile, I tried to stand. It took a while to find my feet. Lightheaded and buzzed, I walked towards him. The mess of bags and takeout boxes on the counter made me blush. He was doing all of this, on my account, because he truly cared. "I cannot make you any guarantees," Henry told me once the phone call ended, "but it is worth a try." With crossed arms, I leaned against the wall for support. That look, the same one that I first saw when I was dabbing lightly at his bloody nose, returned. It was not born of affection or adoration, but of surprise. He must have felt as though he was staring too long and too intensely. "I can put a record on if you would like," the enchantment in his eyes diminished and he set his sights on the stack of vinyl across the room. "Every Waterfordian I've spoken to since arriving is barking mad over Johnny Cash! I finally gave his entire catalog a listen and let me tell you, "get rhythm when you get the blues" is the best bit of advice that I have ever received!"

"Some music might be nice," I went to stand alongside him. His collection was new. Nearly every cover bore a label from Waterford Records. Even the turntable, itself, had a sticker from the local thrift store on the inside.

"Lady's choice," Henry said, stepping aside.

I traced my fingertips over the line of worn covers. Every place in town from the café to the elevators in doctor's offices and business buildings played music of the Rockabilly genre. Nobody would be able to guess that he was not a local by looking at his vinyls alone. "We've corrupted you already," I joked, reaching for Elvis and dropping the needle on his most predictable love song. "How long have you been in town for?"

My song choice must have worked. I thought at first that he was going to ask me to dance. The way that his large, soft hand cradled my own was certainly an implication. The wine had worked, too, apparently. I wanted to tell him that we were being completely idiotic. But that fateful line in the music shot through our hearts like cupid's arrow. _I can't help falling in love with you._ Gravity did the rest. "Long enough to fall in love," Henry whispered before sweetening my lips with a tender, wine-drenched kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

I didn't realize how weak I was before. I tried to last. To give Henry love that matched the aching desire that I had for him. The tighter that I held on, the more my limbs trembled. He soothed me, caressed me, whispered on and on about how I was the last person that he expected to meet and somehow, the only one that he needed. It was a fantasy come to life. He was so much gentler than Todd ever was, he didn't ask me to perform tasks that I was uncomfortable with or tell me to turn over, he looked me in the eye, remaining present and appreciative of the efforts that I made to please him. His breaths became hollow echoes against the ringing in my ears, my mouth grew parched despite the deepness of his kiss, I kept my eyes open and combatted my failing consciousness. Blacking out while lying down was always preferable. It gave me a soft place to land and spared me the judgement of others, but the thought of passing out during intercourse had never crossed my mind before. It was inevitable at this point and I was absolutely humiliated.

"Henry," I blared, feeling my tongue sticking to the inside of my dry cheek. "Is this the wine's doing or will I have another chance with you?" Both of my arms had laced themselves behind his back. My words slurred, my body resigned from our lively dance and I could feel my hands slipping and falling to my sides.

He grabbed hold of my nearest hand, sliding it several inches above my head, gripping it tightly and pressing it deep into the couch cushion. "Have I not made my affection for you clear enough, Marigold Casey? This is not… what do you modernists call it, a 'one night stand'?"

"Modernists? What do… what do you mean by…" my laugh collapsed into itself, my words followed suit. Those eyes, those lips, that sideways smirk turned to nothing more than a handsome blur. I could feel myself begin to gasp, not knowing if it was love or life that I sought after. There were no fireworks for me, not this time. To this day, I wonder if this was the first in the chain of events leading up to Henry's sudden abandonment. What if I had stayed to finish what we started? Would he have stayed with me, too? He rocked me sweetly, softly and I remained beneath him, inanimate as a fallen leaf floating downstream on a gentle current. I never learned if he stopped himself or finished, I never had the nerve to ask. All that I know is that several hours later, when the disorienting combination of flashes and sirens in the college parking lot roused us from our slumber, Henry had dressed himself in night clothes and covered my modesty with a soft, thick throw. That tiny gesture told me that no matter what he decided to do with my body when I temporarily left it vulnerable in his embrace, he was still a gentleman.

"Where's my phone?" My voice quivered and as I sat upright, all of my extremities were wobbly and numb. My sweat had dried, but the air in the apartment smacked coldly across my naked shoulders and breasts. I stood up momentarily, shivering and re-adjusting the blanket around myself like a robe. Henry remembered before I did that I left my phone beside his record collection. It was the last thing that I touched before unbuttoning my dress in front of him, a talisman that would lead me back to reality.

He walked to that corner, illuminated by the police car lights and I revisited my sloppy attempt at foreplay in my mind. I was terrible at seducing men. Ridiculous, really. Given his appearance, charm and (as I had recently learned, to little surprise of my own) skillfulness in bed, I was certain that I was not the only woman to postpone a slow dance with him for something so scandalous. My innocence was laughable. I picked the worst song to strip to on the planet, lost all sense of rhythm and laughed like a drunken lunatic when he carried me to the couch. He had been so cordial, treating it like a new, exhilarating experience. What's more, he made it work. Everything from my eager uncertainty to the upbeat waltz of Darius Rucker's "Wagon Wheel", he handled it all with such proficiency and left my awkward, lanky body buzzing and singing like a fiddle string. If only my sound hadn't been so short-lived.

Giselle texted me so many times that I actually had to scroll down the lock screen to count them all. Ten total, one pending. The text that stood out to me the most was the one saying that she was going to reach out to Jake and search for me. That was why there were police across the street. They were looking all over the school for me. Under Giselle's assumption that I had passed out before the building was locked up, most likely. I punched in my passcode, flipped through my contacts and called her, paying no mind to her most recent text. It was in all caps, so who could blame me?

"Besties don't give besties heart attacks, Mare!" She hollered. So loudly, in fact, that I could hear her through the speaker and from across the street, simultaneously. "Christ on a motherfuggin' cracker! You make it so hard for me to love you sometimes!"

"Yeah, well, right back atcha," I grumbled into the receiver. Telling her that she didn't have to get Jake involved crossed my mind, but that would have given away my location.

"I waited up for you! Tonight was mosaic trivet night! I made us whiskey sours and fondue! Do you know how dangerous it is to have a fondue pot and a glue gun going while your bestie is giving you a damned panic attack?! Where are you?!"

I had two options, lie or try my hand at the truth. Chronic lying is a side effect of eating disorders and Giselle picked up on this long before my official diagnosis. My eyes met Henry's. I was still trying to process this all, how I, Marigold Casey, a good girl, a non-gambler by nature, could toss the dice and win on my first try. This was not a hookup, it was the beginning of a relationship and there was no shame in letting my best friend know the truth. "I met up with a guy after class. And it went well. Very well. Okay?"

"Of all the shitty lies you have told me through the years, Marigold Victoria Casey, that one is the shit-shit-shittiest! The CEO of Porta Potties R' Us would find himself immediately dethroned by your little sugar-coated butt if-"

"-would you believe me if I put him on the phone?"

Although we were in the darkness of his unlit living room, I caught sight of the strangest trace of resistance on Henry's face. Reluctantly, he took the phone when I handed it to him. "Good evening?" Giselle screamed a few incoherent curses at him. "Miss? Ship-"

"Zipp," I corrected him, adoring his awkwardness.

"Miss Zipp. I assure you, your… _bestie_ … is in good hands… Yes, ma'am… yes, I ordered her seven bags of carryout from the Jade Garden."

"THE JADE GARDEN?!" Her voice bled through my phone's speaker… and the outside, "THE WOMAN IS THE HUMAN EQUIVALENT OF A PUREBREAD BITCHIN' FRIZZY!"

Confused, terrified and reeling with ear pain, Henry looked to me for clarification. "She means a bichon frise…"

"SHE WON'T KEEP DOWN THE KIBBLES! NO, SIR!" Giselle continued her violent assault on poor Henry's eardrum. "I'VE SEEN HER TURN THE NOSE UP AT A STEAK AND LOBSTER DINNER FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! SHE'S THE LOVE CHILD OF CHEF GORDON RAMSEY AND THE INVENTOR OF THE TAPEWORM DIET!"

The police dispersed, sirens and lights shut off and car doors started to slam. The search had ended, and Giselle knew that I was alive. That was reason enough to escape. "Hang up," my voice was neither demanding nor hushed, but broken. The second that the "call ended" bell chimed on my phone, I leaned over and started to cry into the fleece throw across my knees. "You haven't been in Waterford long enough for your address to be listed, right? Please tell me she has no way of finding us."

"Not that I am aware of," he sat beside me and moved his hand over my bent back, "she has upset you? What can I do, Marigold? How can I help?"

Telling him everything and returning to his arms would have been the easiest thing in the world. I didn't want to go back to the hospital and start back at square one, I didn't want to carry on eating just enough food to get me through the day and ridding myself of all the rest before bed, but all of those desires were secondary to how burdensome I felt. I loved Giselle and was plummeting faster than the speed of light, falling, falling and falling madly in love with Henry. My illness was my cross to bear, not my loved ones. I wanted to be with him but needed time alone and the false sense of renewal that showering always gave me was all that I asked of him. He walked me to his bathroom and when I heard his feet move away on the opposite side of the closed door, I curled up on the shower floor and cried until the hot water turned cold.

Over half of my students returned for Friday's class, much to my surprise. I was timid for the first five minutes or so, shell shocked from the previous evening, but about halfway through, something changed. It's incredible how much energy it takes to ease yourself into relaxation. I was a livewire, riding a high that I never believed that I would come down from. Giselle had written, asking when to expect me and I had yet to reply. I was in hot demand. I felt naughty. Sexy, even. I would finish the evening strong and return to the cavernous, book-filled love nest that I shared with the British academic of my dreams, ah! Confidence and separation from the circumstances, that was what got me through Friday's class. I was right on point, even when my students strayed from the topic. To make matters even lovelier, I learned beforehand that Henry had accepted a position in the history department several weeks ago and that was why his apartment was practically on campus. My fortunes had improved so swiftly!

After my first truly successful evening at Waterford Community College, I meditated only briefly on how well things had gone and set my mind on Henry's open arms. The nighttime air was brisk, clear and though the fragrance of Douglas firs and rain were severely lacking, it reminded me of Portland, somehow. It reminded me of the only time in my life when I was independent, detached from Waterford, Giselle and all of those traditions that were somehow so easy for me to take for granted. I wanted to start new traditions with Henry. He must have been on the same brainwave, feeling the same appreciation for the cool, dark night because the precious fellow was sitting on a stone bench in the quad, awaiting my arrival.

"There she is! There's my girl!" He stood, welcoming me with open arms. "How was your class?"

"About a squillion times better! That's a hyperbole! Yay, hyperboles!"

As ever, Henry spun my giddy stupidity into gold by leaning me back in his arms and kissing my wordy mouth with all of the style and gusto of a vintage film star. "I have a surprise for you. Do you have a locker on campus where you can store your tote?"

I babbled for several minutes about how I technically wasn't faculty and didn't have a locker. He, on the other hand, hadn't even started working there and already had a classroom and an office to his name. This normally would have ignited some envy in me, but not this time. I dropped my items off in his beautiful, empty office with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. His car was older, a black Mercury with newly refurbished seats. It had been in his possession just long enough for the interior to begin absorbing the delectable amber notes of his cologne. I looked out the window once or twice but kept returning my gaze to his unshaven profile. He was so handsome, so self-assured. He revved the engine, sped fifteen over, taking sharp, smooth turns through the city streets before shooting onto the interstate. I wagered that he had spent years studying films, taking notes and learning how to kiss and drive the way he did.

"I'm beginning to think that I might love you, Henry Anderson," I said bluntly as the car began to slow. Traffic. That cool, suave mask dropped just long enough for him to look at me as he always did, with joy and surprise. "Could you at least give me a hint?" He pointed to a road sign, several yards in the distance and I gave up my perfect view of his face to see where we were headed: Charleston International Airport- 25 Miles.

"I came to South Carolina for research and have hit a wall in my studies. As for you, I figured you could use a weekend away from Waterford. It is on me, no strings attached, no reimbursements. Just you and I, returning to our origins."

"Origins?" I was far too excited to hide my smile from him.

"Two strangers at a gate with nothing to lose and everything to gain…"


	6. Chapter 6

Part Six

We knew nothing about one another, beyond the boundaries of our physical selves. I suppose that is why Henry chose to take me to New York, so that I might meet his companions and gain a larger picture of who he was beyond a silver-tongued charmer with the gentlest hands. I tried to keep an open mind, the last thing that I wanted to be was someone whose fear of the unknown robbed adventure of its beauty. I had my credit card and could easily find toiletries, coffee and a change of clothes in New York. There was a small convenience store across from our gate where I found one of my typical "meals" of yogurt and sparkling water. I kept it in my bag, eating only half of it in the restroom and sticking the remainder in the sanitary bin before returning to Henry. I loathed myself for how quickly I had let him seduce me and how terrified I was of eating in front of him, of chewing, swallowing, of appearing glutenous. Of being a human.

He whispered in my ear, slipped my hair over my shoulder every which way and stroked my neck with his satiny lips. The high that this gave me, of behaving in such a way in public, was shameful. I had snapped at Todd when he stuck my hand in the back pocket of my jeans and tried to walk across downtown Portland, palm to butt. I didn't ask Henry to stop, I didn't want him to stop. I didn't care about the exposure, the indecency. I marveled at how handsome he was, like a newly wealthy woman might flirt with her first diamond. Next to him, I felt plain and unworthy. The cruelest truth of all, miles away from my sudden dismissal of modesty, was how badly I wanted to please him, to keep him intrigued and engaged. I feared that if he lost interest in me for so much as a second, he would abandon me, and I could not handle another abandonment. He had entered my life without warning or explanation. One misstep and I could lose him just as easily. Not once did this threat leave my mind. Before boarding, I went to the lady's room one last time and exercised my usual ritual of taking command of my body and remaining "pretty" for him. This was the longest I had gone without food, living from blackout to blackout, avoiding Giselle's calls and finding my life force in infatuation.

"I love flying," Henry necked me as we settled into our seats. "You might say that I've developed an addiction for it recently." There was an older couple a few seats over, gossiping and staring back at us every chance they could find. I lowered my eyelids until the white cabin lights died out. The wet warmth of his lips across my neck was enough to keep me afloat. "God, I love this century. You can get away with anything, really. Anything at all."

Thank heavens the aircraft was smaller than what I had flown across the country in. Two seats and then the aisle was the perfect climate for such behavior. The stewardess was younger and didn't seem to mind the scene that Henry and I were making. We were a light crowd on the red-eye. While the plane was in taxi to the runway, the lights inside were dimmed and everyone cast their eyes on the twinkling skyscrapers of downtown Charleston. Numbness and coldness crept through my body, but it was all internal. Quietly, I contemplated how distant we truly were. I was falling apart like a ragdoll in a windstorm, but Henry couldn't see, no matter how close we were.

A jerk came at the pit of my stomach, the plane stopped at the base of the runway. "I'm sick again, Henry," I told him, knowing that he wouldn't understand. I had dropped hints and even asked for his help the night that I collapsed in his arms, but there was a disconnect. He was so lost in this roleplay that he had developed based on my deepest fantasy, that he was a time traveler with no understanding of the peril that I was in. Even so, I thought that he would realize what I meant without me having to say the word.

"Look out the window and breathe." As he spoke those soothing words, his hand moved past the perimeter of my skirt and skyward. My boyshort panties, a full-coverage secret shared by most chronic dress wearers were hardly a barrier for Henry. He had seen a pair of them on me before and knew of the looser spaces on the waistband and the leg.

My comfort zone hadn't only been crossed, it was now a dot on the horizon and nothing more. "We are going to get caught!"

"When you're speeding down a runway at 500 miles an hour, experiencing lift off and the sensation of flight that, when you think about it, our bodies were never designed to do," the speed of his hand and the plane's speed synchronized, "you're a bit more concerned with surviving to notice what is happening two seats over, in the dark."

Our backs were forced into our seats by the sudden, violent change of speed. He knew how to touch me. Slow and deep, then faster and deeper than before. I unraveled at his touch. The secrets of my soul remained anchored, the disease that was killing me and the moment-to-moment, near-death experience of being launched from the earth, shrunk in their proportion. My excitement grew apparent to him, I was high above the ground faster than any jet on earth could ever be. My throaty swoon disappeared in the noise before either of us could hear. I watched the silhouettes of trees and buildings through the window. It was tacky, appalling. Or rather, it should have been. Instead, I found a strange sense of poetry in it. He must have loved the body that I hated to give it such a beautiful experience. Of internal and external flight. The space around us turned weightless and airborne, I tilted my head against his shoulder, gasping and watching the wobbling horizon.

"If you could travel to any date in history," his voice masked over the popping in my ears, "any day and in any location at all, where would you go?"

"Uh," I stammered between breaths, not thinking clearly. All things considered, my brain was hardy in working order, "the 25th of May in the year 1878." His laugh was dismissive, but his fingers had hardly lost interest. "at the Opera Comique in London," I specified further, trying to prove that I hadn't merely plucked the date out of thin air. "To see the premiere of HMS Pinafore."

"If that is what you wish, then it shall be so. I have a friend in New York-" an announcement of unexpected turbulence cut his sentence short.

A dark cloud appeared on the opposite side of the window and spurts of rain tapped across the glass. I watched and breathed, the inhibitions of my body and my soul were being challenged by Henry's touch and the violence of nature. Lightning burned and died in the distance between the walls of clouds. The tiny plane fought gallantly, lancing the storm and shooting towards the clear heavens.

"Marry me," I pleaded, in the place of my usual, trite bellow of love. The sights that I was seeing and the feelings that I was feeling were beyond intoxicating. His spell had worked in a matter of minutes.

The engine groaned and made a shuffling sound that I had never heard before in all of my years of flying. We jerked forward, Henry and I, slinging towards the plastic tray on the back of the seats in front of ours. Divine intervention, that was my first guess. God had seen our sin and decided to strike the aircraft down. We dropped out of the grayness in a level freefall, the lights switched on and the speakers buzzed to life, but our instructions were much too riddled with static to hear.

"If that is what you wish," Henry repeated, hearing only my jarring proposal "then it shall be so." The thunderheads were high above us now. We could see Charleston below us through the clarity of perfectly-spaced rainfall, and yet, the wing remained disguised by a swirling blanket of grey. Something was burning and Henry, foolish, courageous Henry unfastened his seatbelt. "We're the only ones who can see behind the wing," he told me, "they need to know where the lightning struck and fast. Stay low and keep your head covered. I love you."

He disappeared behind the curtain of falling oxygen masks and a heavy miscellany of items from the loosened overhead bins. Doing what he told me to do didn't even cross my mind. I was dizzy enough to begin with and figured that standing on top of a falling floor would worsen my condition, but it did not. I was perfectly stable and agile as I escaped into the aisle. I could see him, gripping the back of each seat that he passed, heading towards the curtain at the front of economy class. Surely, I would catch up with him before he was too far to reach. This was who Henry and I were, when all is said and done, two fools with delusions of grandeur chasing after one another on a plane in a nosedive. I don't know what it was or if it struck me from behind, the side, or above. An airborne carryon, most likely. Or perhaps my body had finally given up on me, but when I fell into the black void of unconsciousness that day, I did not expect to wake up.

A wide window appeared before me in an ornate room with pale green walls. The golden light of a Carolina evening passed through it and glinted in rainbow colors across an overhanging chandelier. Breath, warm and doused with liquor traipsed my shoulders and teased my nose. A pair of hands, too rugged and large to be Henry's worked my hair into a sloppy, three-strand braid. "Have you ever been to a hanging, Annabelle?" I knew that voice. I had heard it before, in a distant dream. I searched the window's glass for the reflection of its owner. "Usually, it is a clean-sweep. But occasionally, the neck does not break and the convicted is left to strangle to death mid-air."

"There is some poetry, even in that fate, don't you think?" The words flowed from my lips and out into the dreamscape. They belonged to me and yet, Annabelle had claimed them. She had stolen my identity in many dreams before. The man behind me touched a book to my shoulders and started to write, using my back as a surface. "What are you doing?"

"Some words for you to reflect upon as you walk to the gallows," I tried to see him, but as I turned I saw that he was ringed with light, just as brilliant as the setting sun. Listening, it seemed, was what I was limited to. "It is my hope that you will find some comfort in them. Now, will you do me the pleasure of letting me hear the last of yours?"

"I might have chosen my fate today, but it is not too late to change your own-"

"-Marigold," the stranger interrupted me from behind and fell to his knees. He held onto me tightly- so, so tightly, and pressed the side of his face to my own. I had never been held like this before in all my life. It was exhilarating at first, but he made the empathetic artery of my heart begin to throb as his heavy tears rolled onto my cheek and lips, "My beautiful one. It is not too late." The light around the crying man, this anonymous angel, filled my eyes and drowned out the scene. But I could still feel his desperate embrace long after the dream faded.

Those mint green walls bordered with palmetto wallpaper did not belong to any hospital in New York. They were the same color as the walls that I had just seen. Whether or not they had influenced my dream, I could not say. I knew that space, the cold rush of saline into the vein on my hand and forearm were disturbingly familiar. What's more, I knew those black pumps on the other side of the curtain, the tapping of her foot bore its own unique rhythm. She was interrogating Giselle and now that I was awake, I knew that I was next in line. I moved, looking for Henry and he did not disappoint. He spread a hot blanket across my chest. Giselle must have told him how often I requested them from the staff.

"The hanging," I mumbled, still lost in pleasant delusion. "When was the hanging?"

Henry appeared to be intrigued by my babbling. My best guess was that he was trying to play along. "You dreamt of a hanging." He said with a nod.

I was thrilled that he decided to forego the trope, Wizard of Oz-style explanation of where I was and what had happened and contributed to my whimsy with his own. "When did it happen? And where?"

"That would be… 1780 on the second of October. New York. How on earth did you-"

"That's where I'd like to go," I laughed at my words. "How hard did I hit my head?"

The curtain's rings screeched, and our perfectly peculiar reunion met its immediate demise. Giselle was the last to enter my machine-plagued nook. Her arms were crossed, her face was stern. The psychiatrist who had worked with me before was a Martin. That should have been comforting, but it was not. She was a rotten apple on their family tree and despite those stellar reviews and the awards that had accumulated on her office wall, I never trusted her. Not in high school and certainly not now.

"Miss Zipp tells me that you dropped off the radar for a few days there," Dr. Martin articulated, piercing my soul with her icy stare. "Were you planning on seeking medical attention in New York?" I looked to Henry, wondering what had been discussed while I was out. "This is starting to sound a lot like your sophomore year of high school-"

"-Damn skippy," Giselle gave a soulful shake of her head, breaking into a full-blown cringe as Henry went to stand beside her. "Except this time, your escape didn't go as planned. This time, you didn't have your parents worried sick, or every cop in the county searching until you turned up in some roadside hotel, too weak to stand up and answer the door. You can't run away from your problems anymore."

I wanted to scream. I had fallen out of the sky and landed in the middle of another soul-crushing intervention. "It's different this time, Zippy. I had Henry with me."

"New York," she pursed her lips, "what's in New York, Mare?"

"I don't know! It wasn't Waterford. I just wanted to be someplace other than Waterford for a while. Is that such a crime?!"

"Well, thank goodness Dr. Martin is here. She can get you all situated up at Fairbanks in Raleigh again. I can visit you on arts and crafts night and you can get better and turn back into a real human-"

"A real human?" I felt my voice falter as I nodded.

"I think what Miss Zipp is trying to say," Dr. Martin began in that cool, soothing voice that therapists have specialized mastery classes for, "is that she misses you-"

"She wants me to move out. She didn't want me to graduate and come back to South Carolina because she knew that she would be stuck with me. You know what? That's okay, because I've started my career and I am getting married, you know, like a _real_ person. So, Giselle doesn't have to worry about having to carry my dead weight anymore! Now that's all on Henry! Go ahead, Zippy! You're free to toss your undesirable potato sack of a bestie to the next unlucky contestant! Full speed ahead, Captain Underpants!"

Dr. Martin clasped her hands and took a cleansing breath, "This is good. I really think we're getting somewhere."

Giselle's face was utterly whitewashed, "You're getting married? To some dude I didn't even know existed only an hour ago?"

Poor Henry finally managed to sneak a word in, "You punched me in the nose once. Lovely to see you again."

"What exactly were you trying to accomplish by not coming to mosaic trivet and fondue night… and avoiding all of my calls and texts? Were you trying to erase yourself from my life?"

"Remember what I told you before Miss Zipp," Dr. Martin, as prissily as ever, tousled her brown bob that was sharp enough to tell time with, "it wasn't Miss Casey who hurt you, it was her-"

Myself and the other two women in the room were so caught up in our argument that none of us realized how flushed and frazzled Henry had become. "This is madness!" He erupted. I thought it was precious for about two seconds, but quickly changed my mind. "Marigold, I adore you. I have never, in all my years of living and traveling, beheld such a perfect and unique amalgamation of radiance, talent and grace. But where I come from, starvation is a cruel circumstance. Your wastefulness and ungratefulness… well… I am just going to say it… your behavior sickens me! I have been so blinded by your beauty, your kindness and your endearing quirks to notice it before tonight. Dr. Martin spoke to us earlier about supporting you and seeing you through this trial, but I am afraid that I just can't bring myself to do so. You know where to find me. I will always be there. But until you learn how to care for yourself, well, I'm afraid I can't… farewell."

I was so used to shaking, so used to being unable to feel my own body that I didn't realize until I tried to stand that I simply was not strong enough to go after him. Giselle, quickly and involuntarily reached out, propped me up and helped me walk to the end of the ward. We were at arms with one another and yet, she knew what I required and wanted to help me. "Not again." If she wasn't holding on to me, I would have melted into a heap on the floor, "I can't have someone leave me again!"

"Just a few more steps, just try to make it to that chair," she sat me down at the entrance to the hallway. From there, I could see Henry's form growing ever smaller.

I looked upward, broken and raw, gazing into my best friend's eyes. She held my head and pushed my tears aside with her wild, acrylic nails. "Why, Giselle? Why does everyone always leave me?" My heart grew sore, just as sore as it had as I dreamt of that woeful angel who shed undeserved tears into my brow. I deciphered that soreness with ease, it was the pain that one feels after they have hurt someone who they love.

"Don't you move, my lil' sweet potato pie," she whispered before turning, breaking into a full sprint and chasing Henry down. They were so far away now, I could hardly see what was happening until Giselle turned him around, raised her fist high above her head and swiped it clean across his nose for a second time.


	7. Chapter 7

Part Seven

Two Months Later

I missed another appointment to sit in my car. In a city full of spaces great and small, comfortable and uncomfortable, it was the only space that was truly my own. Because Waterford is such a walkable place, with everything that you could ever need within a tiny radius, most teenagers opted out of traditional car ownership. I was no exception. Giselle and I shared her mother's minivan and it wasn't until Mrs. Zipp noticed how many containers of finger paints and Mod Podge had busted open in the back seat, along with the inevitable acclimation of glitter glue spillage, that it became ours. The Subaru Baja was mine the instant that I saw it on the lot from the bus. Without so much as a fingerprint on the exterior or a hazelnut macchiato spill across the control panel, it was my own. Ostentatiously yellow with a bed in the back, less than half the size of one you might find on a trunk. What an oddity it was! Even in Waterford. It reminded me of Portland, where every other person and their dog had a Subaru to their name.

Most days, I would use the Baja to haul lumber and supplies from the hardware store to the schoolhouse. Destroying the legions of venomous spiders that had called the building home was a distant memory, thankfully. I sprayed the circumference over and over with repellant, just in case any more of the eight-legged freaks decided to head back to school. My next and most trying challenge of all was repairing the floors. I wanted to keep the schoolhouse as authentic as possible, with as many of its original intricacies as I could salvage. Keeping the old floor was my intention, but it would not pass safety regulations if it didn't have some kind of reinforcement. In other words, if I couldn't find the gumption to burrow into the structure's foundation and fix the floors from the bottom-up, the schoolhouse could not be used.

I was parked across the street, staring daggers at my work-in-progress. From the outside, nobody could see the weeks of effort that I had given it. I was eating again. I had to for the energy, my nutritionist convinced me of this much before I abandoned her along with those ridiculous worksheets and trite mantras. If I couldn't love myself, if I couldn't love Henry, I would love the schoolhouse—and I did, in spite of itself. I swiped through my playlist, it was a good day for Donovan. Even though I always found myself having to skip over "Mellow Yellow", which my mother, Saffron, was named after. Hippies are strange, quite rightly. The Neighborhood Market has the best stuffed grape leaves. I munched on them, delicately along with some pretzels, hummus and a large bottle of cold brew espresso. I wasn't a minute into "Sunshine Superman" when I noticed a tall man with reddish-brown hair and a wardrobe that was almost entirely composed of denim, examining the entrance that I had sawed into the building's base.

"Dammit," I grumbled, exiting the lumber-scented sanctuary of my car, "maybe I should build a gate, too."

Although I was approaching him with all of the gusto of a lioness protecting her young, he was unshaken. In fact, he strode towards me and I got a better look at him. He was not from Waterford, I could tell you that much. A tourist, I wagered, from the Northeast. He had the stride and posture of a Wallstreet prick (or a cop) and the attire of someone who tries and fails to fit in here in the South.

"I know that there are kids nearby," I babbled, "and I was going to close the opening off before leaving today. So, before you start acting all high and mighty about it, the Casey Schoolhouse is private property and owned by my family and everyone here in Waterford knows it!"

"Miss Casey?" We reached one another at the median in the center of the road. It was elevated and just safe enough to stand on should the occasional car crawl through the school zone. His voice, rich and deep reached and soothed my eardrums. He had very kind eyes, this man; and a friendly, albeit stern face. Perhaps the denim was not a total loss after all, it complimented his blue eyes beautifully. "Principal Ballard said that I might find you here."

I looked the burly stranger over with distrust. "Ballard, ay?"

"You see, Miss Casey," he looked both ways not once, not twice, but three times and tentatively made his way towards my car. He might have been threatening, if it wasn't for the poorly-concealed nervousness that I hadn't picked up on from afar. "I am looking for a friend of mine and I understand that they two of you know one another. You must think that I am horribly rude-"

"-Well, you _were_ prowling around _my_ schoolhouse." A wash of pure dejection moved across those pleasant eyes. I called it long before he had the opportunity to introduce himself and explain his situation. He was one of Henry's friends. He simply had to be. They carried themselves the same way, strange and lost, like drunkards who are fighting to appear sober. They were the same kind of 'different', a 'different' that I still cannot fully give a description to or find any sort of understanding towards. To this day, I still cannot. "Marigold." I shook his hand stiffly and leaned against the side of my super-sweet ride (cue sarcasm flag).

"Boris."

I laughed through my nose a bit. Now I knew what Henry meant when he said that the name, 'Marigold' suited me well. This denim-clad, baritone gentleman was undeniably the most 'Boris' human that I had ever seen. I had seen creeps before, too, cutthroats who make the hair on the back of one's neck stand up on end when you pass them on the street. Boris was not one of them. He was harmless, a sweetie pie, a Hufflepuff! Hear you me, it takes one to know one! "Who is your friend, Boris?"

"Henry Anderson."

Again, I saw that coming. Yet, it hurt to hear his name. The last time that I saw him was at the "end" of our whirlwind romance, which had "concluded" in the same fashion that it had begun, with Giselle giving him a bloody nose. I very nearly opened up my door to let him in, but there remained a hint of wariness at the end of the immediate fondness that I had for Boris. "Follow me." Instead of driving him there, we walked. Out in the open, through the heart of Waterford. Henry's apartment was a ten-minute walk from the school. I would show Boris the building and be on my merry way. That was my plan, anyway. "What brings you to Waterford? I mean… apart from the obvious."

"The obvious?"

"Yeah!" I blurted, drowning the poor, seemingly quiet fellow with my extravertism, "The history, the weirdos, the music scene…"

Boris crossed his arms. He was clearly uncomfortable, but something told me that I was not the only cause. His cautiousness about when to cross the street and remaining inside of a 'personal bubble' of sorts as we headed into the populated downtown district reminded me weirdly of Adrian Monk. "I suppose… the music… scene… the music scene?"

His quietness and lack of enthusiasm for everything from Waterford records to Jazz at the Bistro told me otherwise. "How do you know Henry?"

"We are very old friends." This time, I pinpointed a confidence and authoritativeness in his voice that I hadn't heard before. "Reconnecting through a mutual friend of ours in New York, Arthur Tarleton. And the Ballards, of course. I lived with Mr. Tarleton and Mrs. Ballard for a while after Henry headed down here to research Peggy Shippen. I was in Waterford once before, a long time ago. It's strange, I keep seeing faces here that I recognize. Even your own, Miss Casey."

"Well, I've never seen you before! And I had no idea what or who Henry was researching. Too late for me to care, I guess!" My brashness caused him to retreat, yet again. "Tarleton and Ballard. Hmmm. So, that would be Emily Ballard? They sent Henry some strange letters! I remember reading that Emily Ballard teaches in Julliard. Is she a musician? Are you a musician, too? Sorry. You answered 'music' earlier and I was just wondering…"

"I am… just Boris," his meek answer was salvaged by a nearly darling grin. Cute. Not my type, so there is no confusion, but I certainly did find him cute. I was on the verge of attempting to set him up with Giselle when Boris pointed Henry out on the grassy turf on the outskirts of the college. "I believe we have arrived!"

This was my cue to leave and heaven knows, I would have, but Henry was not alone. As he walked, I realized a tiny brown and white dot ringing his ankles and winding a long, purple leash around them. The nearer that we drew, the more that adorable dot of energy pulled me in like a magnet. He was leash-training a puppy. To be more specific, the cutest little collie puppy that I had ever laid eyes on. Every step he took, the puppy would intervene, nipping at his ankles and biting down on the leash like a chew toy. Boris wasn't nearly as captivated as I was, he called out to his friend and Henry looked up, catching both of us in one glance. Assuming this was part of some grand design, God had never played a more successful game of mousetrap.

"You!" He smiled. At Boris, not me. "You escaped the wrath of the deranged Arthur Tarleton!" With a stumble, Henry walked towards us. "Ship! Heel!" Of course, the puppy didn't listen and started to roll around in the grass, growing all the more entangled by the minute. "Ship! Damn!" I looked at the ground. Now, it was my turn to be the quiet one. Perhaps I would be able to make a run for it, after all. "Marigold. Will you grab hold of this infernal beast for a moment?" Nope.

"Nice to see you too, Hen." My words were hostile, but I was outwardly ecstatic to be charged with the tiny canine. Ship, the poorest named pet in the history of beastie domestication, was just as fuzzy, warm and squishy as I imagined her to be from afar. She nipped at my fingers, but I didn't mind. There is nothing more satisfying that holding a puppy, in my opinion. "You sure move fast! I see you found a cute girl to replace me with already! Now, why the hell did you name her Ship? That's the real question."

Boris kneaded his forehead, potentially embarrassed for Henry, but I never had the opportunity to figure out what for, "Shippen, most likely…"

"Shipoopi," Henry droned, "I was given a discount on her because she is a bit of an escape artist. Once she starts running, well, the girl is-"

"-hard to get. Clever." I was tickled, and my lack of a poker face gave me away, I'm sure.

"That's not all. The little hellion kept me up for three nights straight, just howling away! I tried taking her back, but-"

"-that's a little bit heartless, don't you think?" I didn't want to pick a fight, but he was asking for it, "Taking her in, making her feel loved and the second you realize that she isn't perfect, you kick her to the curb!" Boris looked down at his shoes. "I should go." The desire to get far away from the awkwardness clouded my logic. It took several paces in the opposite direction for me to realize that the puppy was still squirming about in my arms. I stopped and headed back to return her. That was my intention, anyway. Yet, I felt a sense of belonging as I held Shipoopi, a shock wave that was infinitely stronger and more profound than what the Subaru gave me. Henry had cared for and discarded us both. Now, thanks to Boris, we managed to find one another. I had to ask. I absolutely had to. "You really don't want this furbaby?"

For a moment, everyone was quiet. Henry stared at me, I stared at Shipoopi and poor Boris maintained a steady gaze on the tips of his toes. "Boris? ... Marigold?" he sighed and then, remarkably, he smiled, "Won't you come inside for a cup of tea?"


	8. Chapter 8

Necessary Flashback

I could glaze over my weeks in recovery. It would be easy. Preferable, even. But you see, dear reader, there is a puzzle that I am still trying to solve. As I revisit our early days, the first falling and falling through that I had with Henry; as I consider who we were and where we eventually ended up, I still can't make sense of it. Giselle kept her word and visited me in Raleigh. That was where it began. On one of the many craft nights that she and I shared. Despite our differences, seeing her was what got me through that series of overtly systematic weeks. The all-female facility was reminiscent of a spa. In my mind, that effect was strictly meant to calm our visiting friends and family. Bloodwork was done in a separate wing, a part of the building that only the patients and staff ever saw. I released my electrolyte count to Giselle only after I started to gain weight. I was just under a hundred pounds the time scrunchie night rolled around. We might have celebrated my progress from 95 to 98 if such a conversation was welcome in the lounge.

I wanted to leave. That was my goal, that was what mattered most; to leave and return to work. I wrote there. I led a journaling circle. I made false promises to my psychoanalyst that I was going to write my way out of my E.D. There was some truth to that goal and yet, there remained countless gaps in my crystalline intentions. What I wrote in Raleigh remained overshadowed by what remained unwritten. I lied to myself. I lied to everyone. I kept up my façade just as religiously as Fairbanks maintained its own as a normal resort… where, in truth, the lives of its residents and the mental stability of its visitors hung in a delicate balance. But that is beside the point, the point and the pinnacle of this mystery is… scrunchie night. Giselle commandeered the crafting sessions just as swiftly as I had the journaling circle. She would rip off instructions from Pinterest and Youtube. Most of the people in recovery were teenage girls, adrift on the same tempest, on the same rickety raft that I had boarded in high school with the firm conviction that it would deliver me to perpetual beauty and happiness. I want to cry every time that I think about it. So… scrunchies.

It was a fun craft, one that required only four components: a bandana, a hairband, some glitter glue and a pair of scissors (preferably the kind that cuts in whimsical, squiggly lines). Giselle brought all of the above, ensuring that the materials for my scrunchie were yellow and hers was electric pink. We used the glitter glue to outline the design and sped the process up by going over the bandana-covered table with a hairdryer. Many of the crafters lost their energy before the night was through and trickled out of the room, one by one, abandoning their projects. This was a sad, common occurrence. I would usually stay behind to help Giselle finish the ones that patients wanted done. For those who elected to finish the craft at another time, we would assemble little DIY gift bags and deliver them to their rooms at the end of the night. My fingers very nearly gave up on cutting and tying the jagged strands onto the hairbands after several hours. Giselle didn't say anything, she didn't need to and neither did I. She saw me struggling, she saw how my hands were trembling as I tied those shredded bandana pieces one after the other.

"I'm going to finish it," I droned, my emotions were muddled counterproductively by my medications, "and give it to you because you are such a good friend and have never given up on me once."

I don't know if it was a plea for independence or a wearable token of my devotion to Giselle, but I could have sworn that she would never take it off of her wrist after that night. The day of my release, the glitzy scrunchie of "marigold yellow" that I had just barely managed to construct, was proudly displayed beneath the facetious cheetah print watch that Giselle had worn since high school. Not one week after moving back in with her and getting my job back by the skin of my teeth (a combination of the notoriety of my surname and a phone call from a previous professor who recommended me for the job in the first place), the scrunchie vanished. Just like Luna Lovegood's sneakers, it turned up again in the most unlikely place imaginable…

Back to the Age of Shipoopi

Afternoon tea is not customarily observed in Waterford. Some households, bed and breakfasts, and tearooms (inevitably) adhere to the custom. My point is, in what is arguably the strangest town in the American South, there never was a more peculiar occurrence of afternoon tea as the one that I shared with Boris, Henry and Shipoopi. I felt positively crass, watching the men converse and follow through with the ritual of pouring their tea, adding only a splash of milk and exactly two sugar cubes into their ornate cups. They chatted almost effeminately, pinkies in the air, reminiscing about the time that they attended a concert a Carnegie Hall with the Tarletons. It was either the kitchen table or the sofa and, for reasons you can rightly guess, I settled on enduring the strangeness. The drink did not sit well on my palette at all. I was not used to Devonshire tea. Not yet, anyway. Milk was meant for coffee, sugar cubes were moot and I very nearly asked if Henry had any alternative sweeteners lying around, but felt like a pain in doing so.

The tiny collie watched from the living room, cocking her head to the side when the men began to hum Handel's "The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba", hitting every note with upmost snobbery and precision. I liked Boris much better when Henry was left out of the equation. Taking not one, but two biscuits from the tray that Henry had prepared for us was my own shallow way of making a statement that I was eating again. I did not like them, either and used a corner piece to lure Shipoopi away from her lookout.

"Is she a mini?" I asked, interrupting their humming, which had been going on for a good forty seconds and simply needed to die. They looked confused. "Is your spy car a mini, Mr. Powers?" That didn't help. How predictable they were! "How big will Shipoopi get?"

Henry chewed quickly on his biscuit. It was flattering to know that I still flustered him, at least a little bit. "She is a full-sized rough collie. You know, like Lassie?"

"Lassie!" As if by request, Boris started to whistle the show's nostalgic theme song. "What a sweet, wholesome program! I am so pleased that Art and Em let us watch TV Land and steered us away from that dreadful Cartoon Network! I could feel my brain rotting in its skull every time a cartoo-"

Henry patted the outside of his friend's jean jacket, "-Think of Mickey, Boris. You like Mickey." That comment brought about a wave of sickeningly sweet silence and they both sipped their tea and grinned contently for a moment or two. I swear, I could see a mutual thought bubble between their heads where the opening credits to the "Mickey Mouse Club" TV show played out in full. The simultaneous tapping of their feet was enough to confirm that my observation held water. "Does Giselle's superintendent allow dogs?"

I shouldn't have been embarrassed by this question, but being the only person (Boris aside, who was proving to be absolutely coocoo-beans) who did not own a domicile, seemed to lessen my value as an adult. "Yes. I am also in the process of finding a townhome that does. Oh, and I have a car now. So much for rock bottom…"

"What is rock bottom?" Boris inquired, brushing the biscuit crumbs from his sleeve and onto a napkin. Again, Adrian Monk. "It sounds horribly painful! It doesn't involve having gravel in one's knickers, does it?"

"Don't put words in my mouth, Marigold," if it was previously thought impossible to snap at someone while remaining calm, cool and collected, Henry disproved that theory. "I can see that you are successfully merging back into your ideal lifestyle and I am happy for you. I merely wanted to know if dogs were allowed at your current place of residence."

Shipoopi had scuttled away, towards a small collection of toys by her "assigned" corner. I watched her nose through them and even interrupted Henry's pious 'speech' about how I was 'making steps towards integrating myself back into society' or something like that. The jerk. She decided on a tennis ball and I encouraged her to bring it to me, but the finnicky little creature paused, gave me the strangest, most contemplative look that nearly suggested that I was not actually a tennis ball person and returned to the pile.

Boris chimed in. At the very least, his presence relieved some of the tension. "I don't mean to sound forward, Miss Casey, but you smell simply divine! All of those chemical clouds of fragrance that modern women leave in their wake make my eyes sting, my throat scratch and, frankly, rob them of their beauty. You on the other hand smell like a basil leaf! What sorcery is this?!"

I kept my eyes on Shipoopi but moved my hand into my bag. Apart from journaling and crafting at Fairbanks, I spent most of my time conversing with a phenomenal aromatherapist named Jill. She was a success story who had recovered there and later joined the faculty. I was always a fan of oils and incense, but she taught me about the healing properties of diffusers. While I was picking up my grape leaves at the market, I caved and bought a vile of basil essential oil but not without massaging a drop or two into my pulse points. The fact that Boris was able to pick up on it impressed me greatly, so I passed him the oil to examine.

"You should call Giselle and check with her," said the severely unphased Henry and I was in no mood to argue. Not really.

"If that will put you at ease, I can do that." My fingertip had barely touched the top of my phone when the puppy located the perfect toy for me- only, it was not a toy at all. "Where on earth did she get that?" I asked as she dropped a familiar yellow scrunchie at my feet. I recognized every line of glitter paint, every wavy slice through the fabric, it was without a doubt the scrunchie that I had made for Giselle.

"Oh, that?" Henry gave a carefree shrug. "She found it the first time that I took her to the park. It's not exactly suited for a dog, but the poor creature fell in love with it. Who was I to argue?"

When Shipoopi and I were released, Henry helped me carry her and a large paper bag of her necessities to my car. Boris stayed behind, to make a phone call to Emily Ballard (formerly Emily Tarleton, as I was reminded on several occasions). I felt badly for the fellow. He couldn't quite align the phone with his face and Henry needed to flip it over for him before we left.

"You know," I started, fixed on keeping the inevitable fog of silence from descending upon Henry and I as we walked, "I met some dudes in Portland who considered themselves to be 'off the grid'. They dyed the sheep on their family farm red as a way of protesting fracking and didn't use credit cards because they thought that the chips, strips, chip readers and strip readers would give them brain cancer or some shit. When they say that they are off the grid, Henry, they are way, way, off the grid! They aren't listed in the phonebook, they are only enrolled in government programs that they have been a part of since birth, and they grow all of their own food, too! Remember when I suggested that the Neighborhood Market should go packaging-free? That is a whole other step. I think maybe your friend Boris-"

"Marigold." Henry had fallen behind. Shipoopi was in his arms this time, nipping roughly at his fingers. "Come here."

"I think maybe your friend Boris should relocate to Portland, instead." I inched towards where he was standing, at the end of the block. My babbling was getting faster and more desperate by the minute. "Now, I know that there is a rumor going around that Waterford is the Portland of the South. I very well may have been the one who started that rumor, but-"

"Marigold." He touched the corner of my face, Shipoopi quickly stole his hand back to teethe on it.

"Don't."

"Why do you always surprise me? Why do you always give me exactly what I need right when I need it? I think you know about people adopting animals to bridge gaps in their hearts."

"That's a really stupid line, Henry. Really cliché! You abandoned me, you abandoned this puppy, stop pretending to be chivalrous and be responsible for once. Go back to your apartment before Boris tries to ingest the essential oil that I gave him."

His face didn't change an inch. All that I saw on those elegant features of his were, as ever, admiration and surprise. "Thank you for taking this puppy off my hands. I could kiss you!"

I covered up those stupid butterflies that he always gave me with rage. "Well, you don't get to, you entitled prick! Hand over the woofer."

"The what?"

"The woofer, Henry! Hand over the woofer and get out of my life!"

He obliged, amazingly and stood smiling with his hands on his hips. Those glistening blue eyes bounced from the puppy in my arms, to the scrunchie on my wrist and to the menacing scowl on my face that he had somehow rendered as adorable. "You've got a lot of moxie, Miss Casey. I'll give you that."

 **The opening of the chapter got really real for Marigold and for myself, too. I'm sorry if it was a mess. Since she is the narrator, and this is, more or less, her story- I wanted to keep her voice authentic. This is how she would really talk and what it would be like to converse with her over a cuppa in Coffee n' San-tea. She would shy away from the details of her life, pretty up her discomfort with humor, be snarky, defensive and just… awkward. I know this because I made her and because, with the exception of a handful of artistic embellishments, I kind of** ** _am_** **Marigold/Annabelle. Again, it might have been rough or confusing and I apologize, but I like to experiment with voice in my writing. Huzzah. X**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Marigold's spunk reaches an all-time high in this chapter. I kind of liked that and gave her free-reign. Also, the second half is pure ridiculousness, but this story was in serious need of some levity and (selfishly enough) so was I. Happy reading! X**

Now, if it wasn't for the perfectly therapeutic act of walking through downtown Waterford with a precious poochie in my arms, I would have been fuming by the time that I reached my car. Occasionally, I would catch my mind wandering into potentially harmful territories and had to reel it back in. The most common thought of the bunch was that the puppy was a metaphor for the feelings that Henry and I still very clearly shared with one another. Somehow, be it a phone call over Shipoopi's shot records or a chance meeting in the park or at the college, we would have to communicate again. It was a terrible conglomeration of a spoof of, oh, let's say The Parent Trap and traditional American joint custody. I could prepare myself for two Christmases, sure, but there would have to be a hell of a lot of booze in that nog!

I glided my hands across the tiny collie's fur as I walked. The red and brown patches on her face and back were coarse and the white fur beneath it grew in puffs, almost like down. It was the softest, most precious thing that I had ever touched, so soft, in fact, that it flowed like liquid between my fingers. "You're just a great big snuggle bug!" I observed, hopping off of the sidewalk and towards the Subaru, gleaming smooth and bright as the rind of a lemon as that famed South Carolina golden hour approached. "No wonder you're not taking well to leash training. A snuggly little woofer like you just needs to be cuddled, that's all." Smitten. It was Henry Anderson all over again!

She howled for most of the ride home. It was more of a squeak than anything else and so adorable that it didn't phase me in the least. Rush hour had clogged up the narrow streets on the way to Giselle's apartment. Downtown was a parking lot at this hour, so I switched on some music which, pricelessly enough, caused the puppy to start howling every time a note was held for longer than two counts. The Music Man soundtrack was pretty high on my favorites as is, and I clicked on "Shipoopi", silently meditating on how it was actually the worst name for a dog in the history of dogs with names. Especially one who was apparently such a little dickins on the leash!

"You've got a lot of moxie," I snorted to myself. "Who does he think he is?! Moxie. Psh." Ever the oddball, I would often chant along with the rhythm of my blinker. We must have been quite a scene to pass on the road, a howling puppy and a sawdust-covered woman chanting the word, "moxie" every time the blinker clicked. The inquisitive canine cocked her head to the side, interested in what my traffic jam-induced boredom was causing me to do. Her focus on the radio dropped away and she gave me a sharp yap every time I repeated that passé term. Moxie. Silly as it sounds, that was how my furbaby gained her name.

I was not concerned in the least about Giselle. Waterford is a dog-friendly town and nearly every tenant in her apartment had a pet of some kind. The worst that might come from bringing the puppy up the stairs and into the home would be a microfight or two over who she belonged to. Or she would start knitting her doggie sweaters, sewing little felt hats and eventually assembling a daily wardrobe for the poor creature. As I climbed those three flights of stairs, I began to realize just how tart of a pickle I was in. My job was anything but steady, my students and the schoolhouse were an even split for my attention and, despite the endless appeal of keeping my menu as sparse as possible, I had to eat. If Moxie was truly going to grow to Lassie-proportions, I would have to start buying dog food in surplus very soon.

"You're going to kill me," I began, sliding in through Giselle's open doorway. A gaping door was typically code for "art supplies haul" and she was either in the living room or on the elevator with an armful of shopping totes filled to the brim with bargain yarn and drums of glitter. I sulked into the kitchen, hunting for a cereal bowl and a bottle of spring water to give the puppy. I also contemplated my options for Moxie food. My uncle bred German shepherds and would give them Evian to drink and a combination of boiled chicken and rice for their meals, but that seemed extraneous. I pulled out my phone and started to research the cheapest and most natural diet to give a growing collie.

Giselle brushed past us, utterly preoccupied, dropped two large totes on the floor and started unfold her ironing board. She called it her "ironing bird", which suited the contraption rather brilliantly. The screech of rusty metal on rusty metal was horrific and strangely reminiscent of a squawking peacock with its toenail caught on a floor vent. Then again, so was Giselle's laugh. Moxie's ears perked up and she let out an elongated squeak, as if to match pitches with the noisy ironing board.

She twirled around to find the source of the noise so quickly that she bumped into the 'ironing bird' and it disassembled itself, giving out a final, sharp, metallic-sounding hiss before collapsing in a heap on the cluttered apartment floor. Silence. I had never seen Giselle look so pensive.

"Well…" I struggled, "my psychoanalyst did recommend a pet and since I plan on moving into my own place in a couple of months… I'm sorry."

A couple of paces in, the Giselle that I knew and loved started to reappear on the surface. But just barely. "You've been with Henry Anderson." My jaw very well may have dropped and joined the 'ironing bird' on the floor. How did she know? I was about to inquire when she leaned in and started to sniff my jacket like… well… like a sniffer dog! Moxie loved this and began pawing playfully at her hair. "You have! You smell just like that douchey bubble of Urban Outfitters cologne that follows him around everywhere! Oh, don't look so surprised! You can smell that crap in the next county! And who is your cute friend?!" I exhaled, just a fraction, watching as Giselle swung little Moxie's paw left and right in a semi-adorable handshake. "You know what this puppy needs?! A little hat! And man, oh man! Are you in luck, Doggo! Because I just happened to stumble upon the most fabulous iron-on-patches-and-transfers sale in the South! I still have several crates of accessories from when they foreclosed Build-a-Bear! I'll set you up with a hat for every occasion and a cute lil' applique to match! Wee doggie!"

"So, you aren't mad?" A silly question. Giselle was far too inspired to be mad. She proceeded to burrow into what was once a coat closet. Now, it was a barely functional pantry door that unhinged itself from time to time because the large quantity of totes and boxes from every craft store from Waterford to Charleston. "Whatever. You are clearly in beast mode. I'll leave you to it." She did not respond and instead, dumped a big, neon pink tub full of every hat that Build-a-Bear and American Girl had ever mass-produced. There were a few limited editions in there, too. I didn't tell her at the time, but I was totally onboard with Moxie wearing a little yellow rain hat, seeing as I had a little yellow rain hat, myself. Were there boots to match? I'm sure that there were, somewhere in that pantry of goodies. Along with the portal to Narnia, no doubt.

"Mare, be a peach and fix the ironing bird, will you?"

I stared out over the growing flood of doll clothes. My motherly instinct kicked in (I never knew I had one of those before) and I decided not to oblige. There were countless choking hazards on the floor at it was fairly obvious that little Moxie was teething. "It's dead, Zippy. You killed the ironing bird and you know it."

"Well, then go down town and get us a new one!" Beast mode, indeed. "Unless you want to iron those damned pinafores of yours on the sofa-couch!"

She had a point. Of course, they were overall dresses, but who was I to argue? To be honest, out of the countless cans of worms that I would potentially open by bringing the puppy home, I'd say that I got off pretty easy. Thanks to the demise of our deteriorating ironing board (so it goes), I had the good fortune to exit the apartment just as Giselle's crafty-gal-craziness peaked. Moxie and I drove to suburban Pembroke, where most of the larger, corporate stores were clustered on newly-paved roadways. I could have found everything that we needed in Waterford, but it would have meant multiple stops and some hardcore thrifting on my part. The last thing that we needed was a secondhand "bird" and frankly, we would get enough screeching from our cuddly new quadruped in the days to come. Between Target and Wal-Mart, I chose the latter. Their selection of homewares was exactly what I was looking for and I managed to find a rainbow, leopard-print ironing board that would make Giselle proud. The dog food, however, came up wanting. So, the two of us skipped out on Target and every pet store in Pembroke and returned to our roots.

There was a cute little groomer's across the street from Coffee n' San-tea called Mother Hubbard's Cupboard that had recently expanded into a pet store and, to my surprise, a pet nutritionist. It was owned by a cross-eyed transvestite named Tish (I adore Tish and am merely reporting the facts), who gave me an hour-long lecture on how to feed and care for Moxie. If that was not enough, Tish also passed on some brilliant insight on how incorporating tomato juice into her diet will keep her wee from turning the grass outside of Giselle's apartment yellow. It was a fruitful little excursion to say the least. We returned "home" shortly after sundown. At this time, I expected to find my wayward bestie up to her ears in doll clothes and thoroughly marinated by way of at least seven frozen wine coolers. To my momentary relief, she had embellished two hats for Moxie and moved onto her second project of the night. She was assembling two large, toothpaste-blue feather fans, sprinkling them repeatedly with glitter.

"Mare! Guess what we're doing tonight?!" At least she wasn't slurring. But I knew what those fans implied. Somewhere in Waterford, there was a karaoke machine with a recording of "Sisters" from White Christmas and our names written all over it.

"Come on! You and I have watched just about every 'mom can I keep him' doggie film there is! We're going to come home in about five hours and Moxie will have left the entire apartment in shambles!"

"The apartment already is in shambles, Mare Bear. Besides, Twist of Skate is just as pet friendly as they come, you know that! And with the affinity that lil' Mox has for 'singing' well…"

Initially, I said "no". Then "no" again for good measure. Still, I ended up at Benny Martin's skating rink downtown on karaoke night with a puppy in my arms and Tommy Martin begging for the alcohol-soaked cherry at the bottom of my long island iced tea. Giselle's idea. This tradition started after a high school production of White Christmas. The singing, not the drinking. We would recreate our performance every chance that we could find. The choreography would get sillier, the fans would get larger and glitzier with each reprise. It was deemed a local gem after several years and it was probably the only one of our shenanigans that our fellow Waterfordians truly loved.

We were going full slapstick this time and I needed at least two drinks in my system before I would be placid and confident enough to take the stage. I was just buzzed enough to sass Tommy and scare him away (poor kid) when it happened. A single glance across the dining loft of the roller rink caused my confidence to derail tenfold. Henry Anderson and his strangle little denim-clad companion, Boris, were lurking in the shadows, watching Pastor Benson wrapping up a strangely riveting rendition of Was (Not Was)'s "Walk the Dinosaur". He made up his own dance moves for the chorus, complete with little "t-rex arms" every time he sang (or rather, screamed) the word, "dinosaur". Henry appeared to be giving Boris a pep-talk. Not only was he on the verge of completely ruining karaoke night by crashing our "party", he had stolen our place in the queue! Giselle paraded across the room, glittery (shedding) fan and all and started to bully the DJ.

Meanwhile, I did my best to keep Moxie quiet. Boris, poor, sweet Boris, was getting an embarrassingly large amount of feedback from the microphone and well… the pup liked to match pitches! I took the distraction of Henry's struggling friend as an opportunity to sneak into a dark corner of the bar, out of their field of vision. It was also to hide my laughter. Boris was bombing. What's more, his song choice was... poetic to say the least. Despite the lyrics and bouncing ball on the floor in front of him, he just continued to sing first line of, "You Can't Roller-skate in a Buffalo Herd" over and over, without giving the bridges and the key changes a second thought. A little over a minute in, Henry saved him. He jumped, quite literally, onto the stage, which made his long hair fall rather dreamily into his eyes (the bastard) and they both started to sing "Rockabilly Rebel" by Orion.

Not only was this better, it was spectacular. Just speaking to Boris proved that his voice was as rich, warm and fabulous as a hot-out-of-the-oven brownie from Coffee n' San-tea. Waterfordians liked Orion because he sounded so much like Elvis and… please don't think me nanners, but Boris did, too! Henry faded away into the background, giving his friend his "moment". I suppose that was big of him. Everyone, even those who were roller skating below the loft, stopped what they were doing. The only person who wasn't phased by Boris' velvety pipes was Giselle. She was clearly looking for where I had escaped to, was upset about losing our place in the queue, being upstaged and needed either a shoulder to cry on or an arm to punch. The howling collie pup and I moved into the light just enough for her to locate us. I have a feeling that Henry might have seen me, too, because he started showboating something awful after that.

"Men!" She grabbed my hand and led me back to the bar, only slightly wounded to see that I had left my fan on the counter. "I say we get shitfaced and give them a sing-off that they will never forget! Two long island iced teas! And send two to Simon and Garfunkel over there. Tell 'em that it's on Zippy!"

"You're pissed at them so you're buying them drinks?" I looked down at my shoes. "You are the strangest woman I know…"

"It's code for the game is on, Mare! It's obvious that Hen hired a professional. Unfortunately, Mr. Buffalo Herd doesn't stand a chance against our dazzling, first-class showmanship. Now drink up!"

"Or we could just… I don't know, leave?! Unless you've completely forgotten what Henry did to me…"

Giselle shook her head and downed over half of her drink in one gulp, "Don't you fret, Sister, we're going to mop the stage with that loser, too! It'll be theatre camp all over again!" A thunderous, rock-concert-grade applause followed their act. I would later learn that this was the night that Waterford deemed "Rockabilly Rebel" as its self-proclaimed anthem and a mysterious bar singer by the name of Boris became a local hero. Giselle finished her drink and grabbed me by the hand, even tighter than before. "Don't you dare start grapevining and jazz-handing on me up there, Marigold Victoria Casey! Grapevines and jazz-hands are for amateurs! Do I make myself clear?!"

I felt sick. Not because of how ridiculous Giselle had become, but because blue-eyed, perfect Henry was looking right at me from across the room. He held steady to his microphone and tapped the DJ on the shoulder. This must have set Giselle off, but I didn't quite notice at the time. He started a new song, a solo this time, with a rather lost looking Boris struggling to sing backup. I recognized the song as Brooks and Dunn's "My Maria". Only problem was, Henry had altered the lyrics to "My Marigold" and… let me tell you, when he got to the falsetto, borderline yodel of a line, "My Mariii-iii-iii-iii-iii-gold! Mariii-iii-iii-iii-iii-gold, I love youuuuuuuu!", my heart cracked just about as badly as his voice did. I could feel my face turning from stark white to a blush that would make a vintage wine jealous.

We exchanged a smile, then a laugh from across the room and he continued with his terrible cover of one of the best country songs in history. It didn't even matter if I was bordering on drunk, he would have found the same response in me if I was sober. He received a tiny applause, most of which was meant for Boris, I think, who held his own beautifully. I passed the puppy and (rather heartbreakingly), the fan to Giselle and walked up the steps and into his arms, grinning so widely that I could have sworn my face would freeze that way.

"That went well! Perhaps I should do this more often," he joked as I melted into his embrace.

Everything about him from the way that his large hands fit around the small of my back to the sweet, smoky aroma of the cologne on his collar and in his hair, intoxicated me. He was my custom-made aphrodisiac. "Never again. You know, they used to tell us in high school choir that in order to sing properly, we had to pretend that we were Brits!" I slipped my fingers into the silky terrain of his brown waves, feeling him gravitate towards me and I let him. For a second or two before returning the favor and giving him my all, I welcomed the otherworldly softness and warmth of his lips. It felt right. As though we were picking up the pieces of something that wasn't so broken after all. Kissing him on the stage that night felt like coming come…


	10. Chapter 10

Afternoon tea with Henry and Boris was a strong shot of strangeness, to be sure. Gathering around a table at Twist of Skate with Henry, Boris and a positively livid Giselle made out to be an ideal chaser. I held Henry's hand under the table and he, more than once, attempted to recreate our little scandal on the plane. Our decency was coming apart at the seams and, if I might be completely honest with you, I was more than eager to take him out to the Subaru and jump his bones in the back seat. But I kept my cool and brushed his hand off of my thigh before he even had the chance to reach the runway. "Cool your jet engines, Bub." I cringed at my words, my sheer lack of sex appeal. There was no telling what Henry saw in someone like me. I knew for a fact that Giselle would give me the "speech" when we got back to the apartment. Relationships and (although I never told her in so many words) intimacy, were the leading causes of relapses for me. I could love myself on my own just fine, but the second that another person held me in their arms- let alone, someone who I wanted as badly as Henry Anderson, I would start changing everything that made me Marigold without even realizing that I was losing myself in the pursuit of love.

Benny tossed Tommy our way. He was bussing tables for quarter machine money. This normally would have been a good job for him, but the kid had clearly been taking swigs of unfinished drinks in the corner when no one was looking. He passed out "menus" of greasy bar food, but not without giving poor Henry a death stare. The kid was telepathic. Well, I had my theories, anyway. We were nestled close, but that glare came along just as Henry's fingers ringed the expansion band on the back of my skirt. I sighed in relief, with satisfaction, too, when his warm palm became situated. I was still modestly covered, nobody else would have seen that tiny halfmoon of flesh at the innermost slope of my waist. It was perfectly innocent and yet, simply feeling his skin on my own made me want him even more. He must have known, must have felt my heartrate spike when he pulled me closer because he brushed my hair aside, making to whisper some sweet nothing in my ear. Tommy cleared his throat, loudly and made a face that I suppose was meant to imitate his father- or a very strict teacher whenever the little imp misbehaved.

"Your tab is on the house for the rest of the night," he slurred, part in inebriation and part… well… braces, "on one condition. You bring Elvis back whenever Dad breaks out the karaoke machine." Boris hid behind his menu like a frightened woodland creature. Tommy crossed his arms, "Nice pipes, Tamika. You have your pick of just about any woman in the roller rink! I'd be out there chasing some skirt if I were you!"

Poor Boris continued to hide his face, surfacing not a minute later and with a rather odd statement, no less. "You do not serve muffins in this establishment?"

Giselle, who was taking a final gulp from her watered down long island iced tea went from being an angry drunk to a hysterical one. I'll bet you any money there were dogs in Charleston who heard that shrill giggle of hers and barked all night long because of it! Benny, who I would later learn, was so intent on making Boris a patron of Twist of Skate that he had given Tommy a wire to wear and was listening to the conversation from some fifty feet away. When he rolled over to us, Giselle's laughter worsened. He was in full costume. Steampunk. With a nonfunctioning jetpack over the cape on his back and round goggles pulled over his eyes.

"Good evening. I am Benny Martin," as he extended his gloved hand to Boris, the poor fellow lost all of the color in his face and looked over to Henry, as if to ask permission to speak to the ominous, caped creature in front of him. Henry nodded. "What kind of a muffin would you like?"

The menu dropped from Boris' hands and flapped down onto the table. His eyes widened. "How did you know?!"

"Sorcery, my friend! Now, name a muffin, any muffin and it shall be yours!" Benny waved his arms around, as though he was about to conjure up a muffin out of thin air.

Everyone but Boris shrugged the silliness off. Benny was simply being Benny. "Blueberry. If you please."

The arm waving came to a sudden halt. I assume this was because the great sorcerer saw his son fishing out the maraschino cherry from Giselle's discarded glass. Benny lifted his right leg and stomped the wheels of his roller skates down on Tommy's foot. "Thomas," he hissed between his teeth, "take your allowance to Coffee n' San-tea and buy Mr…"

"Boris Bordon," Henry had to answer for his friend.

"… Mr. Bordon-Presley a blueberry muffin."

Tommy shook the pain out of his foot, his scowl growing by the minute. "Tess ran out this morning. She had to call Mrs. Appleby to have her make more of that organic blueberry goop-"

"- then go to Panera." The mysticism returned to Benny's voice as he resurrected the freakshow arm movements from earlier. Much to Boris' (and drunk Giselle's) delight.

It took a good ten minutes for Tommy to return with the muffin. Let me tell you, there was no living with Boris after that night. As the least inebriated in the bunch, I was deemed the group's designated driver and spent the remainder of the evening drinking strong coffee and trying to sober up. Moxie gained a certain appetite for my drink of choice and I would frequently have to push her snout away. I passed her to Henry when Giselle and I got up to sing and naturally, I could see the silly pupster dipping her nose in the coffee cup when Henry was supposedly "captivated" by my performance and voice. I knew that I was still a little bit buzzed when we migrated to the Subaru, but Benny and the Jetpacks- more like Tommy and the Jetpacks, were tackling the strangest rendition of Aerosmith's "Crying" in all of music history. Let me put it this way, Tommy started chomping on the microphone cord during the harmonica solo. I drove just about as slowly as any grandma and got Giselle to the apartment just fine. It was not my driving that was in question that night, really. Although, if Jake was on patrol, he would have pulled me over in a heartbeat. My judgement to go home with Henry… and Moxie and Boris… was the real whammy.

To begin, Boris asked for another muffin and I couldn't say "no". I liked him. I didn't know how long this opinion would stick. The mental image of him knocking on Henry's door and inquiring for muffin money while he and I were… indisposed… kept popping up in my mind. But, for the time being, I didn't mind his quirky presence. Everyone in Waterford, it seemed, had the same idea as us and were jam-packed into the line. I muttered a complaint or two about how Panera just started offering delivery in the Portland area right after I left. When I bemoaned fast food and delivery services, Henry was quick to defend it. Boris, too. I dismissed it as a "guy thing" and wagered that living in New York City must have turned them on to the convenience of it all. Once Boris was situated in the back with an entire paper sack full of muffins and the bowl of tomato soup that Henry and I were going to split, our little disagreement reached a beautiful denouement. Henry singing, "My Paneee-eee-eee-eee-era, I love youuu!" to the tune of "My Maria" helped matters along greatly. I took out my phone, found the actual song and we sang along to it the whole way home. Moxie howled, of course. Boris gravitated to the record player and even offered to hold on to Moxie while we talked. He seemed to understand what Henry and I needed and this made me like Boris even more. We took our tomato soup, bagel and single cup of iced green tea into the bedroom to make our amends.

"I want you to know that I haven't forgotten what you asked me on the plane," Henry stroked my back, watching me dip a small bit of bagel into the paper bowl. "I haven't forgotten, nor have I dismissed the notion. You just… you needed time to find help that I could not offer you. And what I said to you in the hospital-"

I shut my eyes. I knew what he was doing. He was turning over the stone, to see if the massive, grotesque spider that was my eating disorder had truly been crushed. It was the same stupid thing that I did with the biscuits when we were having tea. I ate my portion of the bagel without another word, hoping that it would make the statement that he was looking for. It was so much better than lying, than admitting the lengths that I would go to in order to be "perfect" for him. "I haven't forgotten, either," I didn't dare to look him in the eyes as I spoke, "and if you're thinking that it was just in the heat of the moment, it wasn't. I've had this dream for many years now and the way that you fit into it... oh!"

"Then tell me," his fingers moved to the bottom of my chin and he guided my head with the sweetest gentleness, "tell me about your dream, my little yellow flower."

My face might have blushed, my ears might have turned red, but I told him everything. I told him about that sweet yellow bungalow in the historic district, just within walking distance of the schoolhouse. I told him about the flowers and herbs that we would plant in our garden, the records that we would dance to in the evening and the park that we would take Moxie and our children to on morning and evening walks. Henry didn't laugh at my vision, he contributed to it by naming the books that we would have in our personal library and the destinations that we would travel to on our summer vacations. We started building our home together that night, on the foundation of my greatest lie. "Let's do it," Henry said to me, giving my hand a tight squeeze. I looked into those dazzling blue eyes and saw nothing but honestly gazing back, "let's get married."


	11. Chapter 11

Marriage has a strange appeal to a woman in her twenties. Our plans were set in stone; a quick and painless weekend excursion to Vegas. It had been years since I felt so complete, as though I was on the right track in my otherwise meaningless and avantgarde little life. I should have acted on that satisfaction and joy, but there I was again, hunched over on the bathtub floor with the shower curtain drawn. Henry was right where I had left him, sleeping in his boxers at the center of his bed. My dress was bunched up under his arm and by taking it, he would have awoken and heard what I was up to. My stomach was settling. In a couple of hours, it would probably growl, and I would resolve to water before stepping into coffee territory. I felt weak from the purge and yet, my body was still coming down from the high that Henry had given it. I'd never had make-up sex before. It might have been better, more stunningly conclusive if we hadn't gone out of our way to be so quiet.

On the corner of the tub, there was a single bottle of 3-in-1 soap with a blue mesh bath pouf around the nozzle. I took them both and looked at the label. This is how much of a creep I am. Bourbon Cedar, my nose had been spot-on. It was the same make as his cologne, from a locally sourced shop in Connecticut. I created a lather on the pillow of mesh with the warm water that was streaming overhead. It smelled like him, felt like him. Spicy and smoky. Hot and sexy. This was my therapy without his judgement. I closed my eyes and could have sworn that he was there, participating in this sensual caress. He didn't mind that I was shaking or that I was too weak to pull myself to my feet. I intended to take it so much further and finish what we had started earlier on my own, but the rings of the curtain screeched in protest and I noticed that I was being watched.

"Hey, Mox," I smiled, then laughed at how demurely the puppy had peeked her head between the wall and shower curtain. She started to whine and click her claws against the tiles and the acrylic. "Now, how did you get in here, Little Miss Clicky Toes?" She needn't answer. I'd learned the hard way before that the smoke alarm in the bathroom had no way of differentiating fire from steam. In order to shower without waking up everyone in the building, we had to keep the door cracked so the room wouldn't cloud up too bad. I washed the decadent-smelling suds away and smacked my forehead against my knees. After staying put for a minute or two, Moxie realized that I was doing nothing of interest and pitter-pattered away.

My head was spinning. Laying down on my back was never a good idea in this situation, unless I wanted water in my nose. Rolling back like a fetus with my face between my legs was the winner and I stayed there, thinking pitifully about life, love and the fact that Henry could make me ring like a bell in under five minutes and I hadn't gotten so much as a moan from him. He did do something that I was particularly fond of, however. A beautiful blip for me to replay in my head whenever I thought that I simply could not satisfy. He would tilt his head back, either against the mattress, my arm or the air and swallow the last kiss that I had left upon his tongue. I would watch carefully each time at the pointed architecture of his throat as it froze. It wasn't quite a gasp that followed, but a whisper of a breath in the shape of my name. That's what I meditated on until the hot water ran out.

I'd stacked a semi-fresh towel and my undergarments on top of the porcelain god. The odds of Boris walking by this early in the morning were slim, but I dressed myself and wrapped my hair from behind the curtain just to be safe. Standing upright was hell. I sulked over the sink, running cold water over the pulse points on my wrists. An old trick that I had learned from my naturalist mother about how to get a perk when caffeine was off the menu. One thing was for sure, Henry's water bill and the mutual bill that we would share after getting married, was bound to be amongst the highest in town! Henry's toothbrush was several inches from my hand. That would have been too indulgent. So, I settled for his mouthwash. It was mild, but strong enough to cover the remaining evidence of my self-abuse. I looked in the mirror. The weight that I had put on in rehab was still there. Shrinking my stomach and sucking it in only did so much. It was small, just a bump, really, but it looked like a beachball to me.

"Thank goodness he hasn't realized that I'm not good enough for him." It was only after those words had fallen from my lips did I realize how truly hideous they were. "Dammit." My knees hit the floor, my arms were still draped over the countertop and the icy water was still pounding relentlessly on my wrists. I filled my lungs with as much air as I could without bursting and released a pathetic groan to the wooden cabinet beneath the sink. "You're making it worse, Mare. Pull yourself together before you ruin everything-" a pair of slippered feet- not paws, shuffled in the doorway. In the second that Whoever was There had given me, I straightened up my back and tried to appear composed.

"Miss Casey." Not only did the terribly unfamiliar hand of Henry's new roommate settle onto my bare shoulder and bra strap, he knelt on the floor beside me until we were eye level. "You are unwell. I saw you shaking earlier and you still are. When you are ready, I…" he concluded his strange sentence by gesturing to a large blueberry muffin that he had placed on the counter for me when I wasn't looking.

Annoyance was the first place that my mind went to. He meant well, there was no denying that he meant well, but he was intruding and worse, he was cornering me with food. "Boris, who was the woman that you were talking to on the phone earlier? Emily, was it?" I watched him smile with his big, blue eyes when he heard the name. "Is Emily your special someone?"

"Emily Joon is very special," Boris said with a puzzled nod. "She is very special, indeed."

"No. Is she your _special someone_?"

Message received. Alarmingly, he blushed and not at the fact that he was sitting on a bathroom floor adjacent to a severely underdressed woman. "Perhaps someday, Miss Casey. Love is not one sided. It would be a very happy circumstance if she were to look at me in such a way. But for now, no."

"How would you feel," I glared, unshaken by his sweet little 'speech', "if Emily was sitting in her bra and panties in front of another guy? Don't get me wrong, you're a sweet dude, but I am Henry's special someone and-"

Boris still appeared to be confused, "If Emily Joon were unwell, I would want someone to help her. Perhaps if I knew more, I would be able to help you. What can I do for you?"

I heaved a flustered sigh and looked upwards to Henry's green patchwork housecoat that was hanging from the door on a hook. "Would you mind handing me that robe?" Boris was on his feet and the covering was in my hands before I could even finish my thought. At least this way, the quaking in my bones would be concealed. "I'm marrying Henry," my voice dropped to a whisper, "and I'm worried that once we're married, he'll realize what a colossal mess I am. So I'm-"

"-Ill from all the nerves." He had that goofy, starry-eyed look that humans get when they believe they've stumbled upon a major epiphany. I let him have it. "Henry told me about you on the telephone. Before, when I was in New York. He was the one to convince me to come down here in the first place and speak to Emily's brother about… well, that is of little importance. He told me that Waterford is a very surprising place. It has a way of presenting you with ideas that you would not considered, otherwise and people who you should have been with all along. He was not looking for you when he came here, Miss Casey, but you were exactly who he needed to find. He adores you. Messy or not." Curiously, Moxie poked her head in the room and curled up in a ball on my lap. I scratched behind her ears and tried my best not to appear irritated as Boris tried, yet again, to feed me. "Here. I think you'll find the sugar crystals on the top to be a delightful addition."

"To share?" I figured Moxie would receive most of my bites, anyway and muffin loving Boris took the bait. He split the sugary atrocity in two and gave me the larger half. "So, what were you hoping to chat with Principal Ballard about, anyway? I've known him for years and he can be kind of a tough customer."

"He is," his eyes fell to the floor and alarmingly, he grinned, "most Ballards are! It truly does not matter."

"Sure, it does!"

Boris looked away again, it was the perfect opportunity to give Moxie a whoppingly massive bit of my little midnight 'snack'. "They were family documents for Emily Joon. Discarded and unimportant. Apparently, he donated them to… well. You have too much on your mind right now to worry about my silly endeavor."

"Silly?! Are you kidding me?" I grinned widely. I was tickled pink to hear this and it showed. "My family owned the museum that they were given to. I'm sure of it! That would most likely put them in the crawlspace of my brother's condo!" My excitement gradually diminished. "You went all the way down here to pick up a couple of documents for a woman who won't even give you the time of day?"

"There is more to it, I'm afraid."

I massaged my temples. Horrible and awkward as I felt, it was nice to have someone there. Someone platonic. Someone who has not Henry or Giselle. "I like you, Boris. Truly. I'll be sure to talk to Jake about this in the morning. Hopefully, over the weekend, when Henry and I are away, he will be able to find what it is that you are looking for. And," a thought dawned on me just then, it was plausible. Originating from my sleep deprivation, no doubt, but plausible, nonetheless. "What do you think of Giselle?" Boris looked as though he had been smacked in the face with a metal watering can. Clearly, attempting to hook Henry's severely polite roomie up with my… severely unpolite roomie, was merely the stuff of sitcoms, so I released the idea into the night.

The towel had absorbed as much moisture from my hair as it could and so, with quivering fingers, I ran a comb through it and returned to bed. Henry was positively darling, embracing my dress and smelling my perfume on its collar as he slept. Come morning, he didn't even question why I was wearing his bath robe. Inseparability. That was what transpired in the hours leading up to our elopement. If it hadn't been for Boris, Moxie and Giselle, we would have spent the entire time in bed and missed our flight! This time, we told her together and my poor bestie was tasked not only with the dog, but with Boris. We checked in successfully, made it through security and were standing at the gate when Henry's phone illuminated.

"He doesn't like the damned muffins!" Giselle squawked through the speaker. "He could learn a thing or two from Mox! She's over there gobbling up her kibbles with no complaints. Now, I have this damned manchild rewinding the Lonely Goatherd number from The Sound of Music so he can watch it over and over again and refusing- I repeat, _refusing_ to touch the muffins that I so generously brought him this morning."

I twisted the bottom of a cold San Pellegrino bottle into my right temple and gazed knowingly at my poor fiancé.

"Well…" Henry struggled, "what kind of muffins were they? Remember, he fancies muffins of the blueberry variety." I could barely hear the machinegun-grade dialogue that proceeded on the other end of the line. "I see. Marigold, darling? What are Blueberry Little Bites?"

After drawing in a deep, therapeutic whiff of the lavender and peppermint blend that I had rubbed into my wrist earlier that morning, I gestured for the cellphone. "Giselle. You are dealing with a man who requires freshly baked goods. You know the Funshine Bear that I left at your apartment? It has a hidden compartment in its butt. In said butt compartment is two rolls of twenties. Go to Panera or Coffee n' San-Tea and buy Mr…?"

"Bordon," Henry said, swiveling his roller bag from side to side and watching our plane approach the gate.

"Boris Bordon? Seriously? Huh. Buy Mr. Bordon a quality muffin before each visit. You may keep whatever remaining cash for yourself. You cannot give him Little Bites and pass them off as the real thing. He knows the difference." Giselle seemed satisfied with this answer, probably because she wasn't initially going to be paid for her generosity. Once the call ended, Henry and I had a good laugh. We simply couldn't help ourselves.


End file.
